Her Voice In My Head

He crept out of her apartment at 2:30 a.m. The city was silent at that hour, streets humming with dim orange light and nothing else. No horns. No chatter. Just the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he slipped down the stairwell like a criminal escaping the scene.

He left his phone behind. Not on purpose, but maybe not entirely by accident either.

By the time he retrieved it late Sunday morning, she had already texted six times.

Each one more casual than the last.

Just made toast. The soft kind you like.

I'll clean the bathroom today. I noticed the soap's low.

Are you sleeping? Please rest. You looked tired.

I'm making pasta. I'll save you some.

It didn't stop. Every hour, something. Updates. Pictures. Emojis. A running commentary on her weekend as if they'd crossed some threshold.

He nearly turned his phone off.

But he didn't.

Instead, he lay in bed, hands clenched, sleepless. Haunted by the photo. By the bathroom. By himself.

By her.

And when Monday came, it brought no relief.

He got to school early. Too early. The sky was still gray, and the halls smelled like floor wax and weekend dust. The fluorescent lights buzzed too loud.

The faculty room was nearly empty—just Mr. Rodriguez with his eyebrows knit and his coffee already half-gone. He didn't say a word, and Callum didn't offer one either.

He signed in, poured himself two cups of coffee, and sat on the corner of the lounge couch. His eyes fixed on nothing.

His mind screamed.

Was this the day?

Would someone slide an envelope across his desk? Would everyone glance too long at him in the hallway? Would the principal ask him to step into his office for "a quick word"?

He couldn't breathe. 

And yet—he made it through first period. Then second. Lunch.

No sign of Lara.

He should've been relieved.

He wasn't.

He was antsy. Coiled. Every footstep outside his classroom made his skin crawl. By fourth period, he was checking the hallway before the bell even rang.

She didn't show.

Not until the final class of the day.

There she was.

Walking in like she always had. Uniform crisp. Hair perfect. Smile tucked just barely behind her lashes. As if nothing had happened.

As if Saturday night hadn't happened.

He couldn't focus. Not on the board. Not on the lesson. Not on the homework due.

Every time she shifted in her seat, his eyes followed.

Every time she tilted her head, his stomach flipped.

When the bell rang, he packed up slower than usual. So did she.

Students filtered out.

One by one.

Until only the two of them remained.

She stayed seated.

He didn't speak first. He didn't need to.

She looked at him for too long—long enough for his skin to prickle. Then finally, her voice came, quieter than usual.

"I know who sent the photos."

His heart dropped. "What?"

She nodded once, fingers curling around the edge of her desk. "It was a man blackmailing my father. The pictures… they're leverage."

He blinked, stunned. "Why did I get one too? If it's about your dad, why involve me?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe they thought you'd be easier to scare. Maybe it was insurance. I... I don't know."

Callum couldn't breathe for a second.

She looked at him again, carefully. "But my dad said it's taken care of now. He's paid whatever needed paying. So you shouldn't have to worry anymore."

He stared at her.

And somehow, he didn't feel better at all.

If anything, he felt worse.

Something didn't add up. There was a gap somewhere in the logic—a crack he couldn't stop staring into. If the photos were about her father, why was he dragged into it so violently? Why had he received that photo alone? At his desk? Why did it feel like the target wasn't her at all?

His gut told him he was missing something. That the real damage wasn't to her.

It was to him.

She sat there so calmly now, like everything was back under control. Like all the panic, all the fear, had simply been paid off. But nothing had been fixed—not for him.

And that silence in the space between them? It felt like a trap.

He turned around, rubbing the side of his head as a sharp ache pulsed just behind his temple. Everything in him screamed that something wasn't right. That he was being played. That this whole thing was a goddamn trap—and he had walked straight into it.

When he looked at her again, she was just watching him. Blank-faced. Empty. Like nothing inside her stirred anymore.

Then she smiled.

"You must've had a bad weekend."

Bad? Bad?

He almost laughed. Almost shouted. If he hadn't been so terrified, he might've thrown the chair.

You kissed me, he wanted to yell. 

But no.

No.

It was his fault.

She was just a child.

Even if everything about her said otherwise.

"Go home," he said, finally. His voice came out low, tired, scraped raw.

He turned to his paperwork—the stack he hadn't been able to touch all day. He just needed her gone. Needed the room to breathe.

He heard the scrape of her chair. Then slow footsteps.

"Are you pushing me away again?" she asked.

He looked up from his desk. Her eyes met his, unblinking.

He wanted to strangle her. God. She shouldn't even be here. Not anymore.

"I'm your teacher," he said flatly. "A good teacher cares about his students, and that's all this is. So yes—I want you to go home."

She smirked. That same smile. That unbearable tilt of the mouth.

"I know," she said. "That's why I like you."

Then she turned and left, her steps echoing like nails against his skull.