It started as admiration. Or at least, that's what I told myself.
He was different from the other teachers-calm, composed, untouchable. The kind of man who carried himself like nothing in the world could shake him. I sat in his class, listened to his words, and convinced myself that my fascination was normal. That it was respect. Curiosity, maybe. Nothing more.
At first, I thought it was admiration. Respect. Nothing unusual. But admiration doesn't make your breath catch when someone says your name. Respect doesn't make you linger after class, pretending you have a question just to stay a little longer.
I told myself I was imagining it. That I was being ridiculous. That a man like him-so intelligent, so composed could never see me as anything but a student. And yet, the more I tried to bury these feelings, the stronger they grew.
"Is it wrong to fall for him?"
The answer should have been simple. Yes. Yes, it was wrong. But if it was, why did it feel so inevitable? Like I had already fallen, long before I even realized I was slipping?
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I never saw it coming.
In all my years of teaching, the line between me and my students had been clear, immovable. They came and went like waves on the shore, leaving only faint imprints I barely noticed before they faded. It was simple. It was safe.
But then she walked into my classroom.
She wasn’t the kind of student who caught your attention right away. There was no sharp wit or overflowing confidence that demanded to be seen. She was quiet, almost too quiet, and her struggles with the material were obvious from the start. When she joined my tuition class, I thought I knew the story already: a timid girl, overwhelmed by the subject, but willing to put in the effort to improve.
I was wrong.
I can’t pinpoint when it started—when she stopped being just another student. Maybe it was during one of those late tutoring sessions, when the classroom was empty, and it was just the two of us, the faint scratching of pencils on paper breaking the silence. Maybe it was the way her brow furrowed when she didn’t understand, or the way her face lit up when she finally did. Or maybe it was something deeper, something I didn’t want to admit even to myself.
The more time I spent with her, the harder it became to ignore. The small details that should’ve meant nothing began to mean everything. The way she bit her lip when she was nervous. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear as she listened intently. The way she fidget her tiny fingers when I scolded her. The way her amber eyes held mine just a little too long, like she was trying to read something I wasn’t ready to show.
She was like a forbidden red apple, gleaming in the sunlight, daring me to take a bite. The red apple that tempted me with its sweetness, its juiciness, its irresistible allure. If I took a bite, I'd become a sinner, a man consumed by his own desires. I knew the rules, the consequences, the weight of what it would mean to cross the line. But the more I tried to look away, the more I was drawn to her.
I told myself it was nothing but a fleeting temptation, one I could resist. I was strong enough, disciplined enough. But as the days turned into weeks, that belief felt more like a lie.
If I took one step toward her, if I let myself indulge even for a moment, I would become the thing I feared most—a sinner. A man who knew better and chose to fall anyway. And with each passing day, the line between teacher and student began to blur, until I found myself standing at the edge of a precipice, staring into the abyss of my own forbidden desires.
But when she looked at me with those eyes, so full of hope and something else I couldn’t quite name, I felt the ground shift beneath me. I was no longer steady. No longer certain.
And when I took the first bite of the forbidden red apple— her— I knew I was no longer the same person. I became the sinner I had never thought I would. But for her, I was ready to become the worst sinner, I was ready to attempt every sin. I was pleased that I did the sin.
But God had other plans for us. Plan that none of us had imagined.
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