Lines We Shouldn't Cross

als arranged perfectly and every note carefully annotated. But today, of all days, I felt inexplicably flustered. I forced myself to breathe, straightening

t of them there not out of requirement but from sheer curiosity. I found myself standing still at the back of the lectu

cognizable in countless interviews and essays, often attached to controversial headlines and opinions that shook the literary

sually against the podium, projected a confidence that filled every corner of the space. T

w I shouldn't, trying to take in every detail of this man who had somehow

t. I nodded quickly, feeling my cheeks flush as I tore my gaze away and slipped into a seat toward the m

hat made each word feel like it was meant for every individual in the room. He wasn't just reciting an academic lecture-he was

e of defiance. "We shape ourselves to be palatable, respectable, and acceptable. Bu

against my will. I could feel his words reverberating, challenging the very t

sidered actions. But as I listened to him, a question crept

st time I'd tru

er student eager to lap up his every word. But his eyes lingered on me, just a second longer than necessary. A twinge of discomfort mixed with something I couldn't quite place-a heat

s with editors who tried to make his words "safer," more digestible for a general audience. He laughed when he told us how he'd ins

et and still. Those raw, unfiltered scenes had left me breathless, drawn into a world where pain and beauty collided in a way that felt

questions it raised that I'd shoved back down as quickly as they surfaced. How could he stand there, speaking

arned us about-reckless, brash, dismissive of academic conventions. A man who, while brilliant, was too "dangerous" to be trusted with young,

that lingering fascination that only someone like Michael could command. I felt myself stiffen, instinctively rising from my seat, prepa

ed to have di

y out when I heard his voice-smo

ed, catching sight of him weaving through the remaining students, his gaze fixed on me wit

looked down, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You looked like you were t

at I could feel in every nerve of my body. My voice faltered, and

much calmer than I felt. "I just...

g. "One of those, are you? The k

into his assumption. I straightened my posture, trying to appear unaffected. "I t

ive. "True," he agreed, his voice soft but steady. "But sometimes, even t

ver acknowledged, something I'd buried beneath the layers of responsibility, discipline, and the desire to please others

id, extending a hand to

m and firm. I half-expected him to give a standard, polite shake, but inste

ee. I could use a fellow 'observer' to keep me company." He chuckled, glancin

some excuse about office hours or pressing responsibilities. After all, wasn't that what people

devouring his book, the part that yearned for somethi

ice barely above a wh

im, others simply curious about the stranger in their midst. I felt self-conscious, certain that people could see ri

ght question why their bookish colleague was sitting with the "infamous" Michael Rivers. We ordered our

the world. Each story he told was painted with vivid detail, as though he'd plucked these moments straight from his memo

ked, suddenly aware that he wanted me to speak, to share something of mysel

interesting to say," I admitted, feel

y. "Everyone has a story, Eva. Sometimes the q

ary, the sacrifices, the endless routines-that had started to feel like prison. But I held back, giving him a small,

had shifted. I left the café that day feeling more alive, more awake, than I had in years. And despite every voi

, and part of me wan