July 2.
Dear Diary,
Binalik na niya yung first major essay namin today. My hands were literally sweating when he walked down the aisle to distribute the papers. It wasn’t just about the grade. It was about the fact that I poured every ounce of my hidden frustration into those three pages of analysis on "Unrequited Love in Victorian Poetry."
I didn't get an A. I got a B+. But it wasn't the grade that made my heart stop. It was what he wrote in the margins. Blue ink on white paper—his handwriting is so precise, yet so sharp. He’s talking to me through my footnotes because he can’t say it to my face.
The lecture hall was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the low hum of nervous whispers. Professor Arisgado was in "Professor Mode" today—crisp white shirt, dark tie, and an expression that screamed boundaries.
"Some of you," Luke started, standing at the front with a stack of papers, "understood the assignment. You looked at the structure, the meter, and the historical context. But some of you..."
He paused, and for a split second, his eyes found mine in the third row.
"...some of you looked too deeply into the emotion. Remember, in Literature, as in life, excessive sentimentality can cloud your judgment. Stick to the facts."
I felt a sting in my chest. Stick to the facts. Was he talking about the essay, or was he reminding me about our confrontation in the kitchen last Sunday?
He began walking around the room, dropping papers onto desks. When he reached mine, he didn't just drop it. He placed it down slowly, his thumb lingering on the edge of the page for a second. He didn't look at me. He just moved on to the next student.
I immediately flipped to the last page.
Grade: B+
My heart sank. I was a straight-A student in Lit. But then I saw the comments. Most professors just write "Good job" or "Needs more citations." Luke had written entire sentences in the margins.
Near a paragraph where I wrote about the 'pain of watching someone you love desire another,' he had circled the word 'pain' and drawn an arrow to a note at the bottom:
 "Ms. Cruz, your interpretation of the poet's 'silent suffering' is vivid, perhaps too vivid. Is the suffering born from the situation, or from the refusal to accept reality? We often romanticize the person we cannot have because it is safer than loving someone we can. Be careful not to confuse 'longing' with 'destiny.'"
I stared at the words until they blurred. He wasn't grading my essay; he was answering my unspoken questions. He was telling me to stop romanticizing him. He was telling me that my crush was just "longing," not "destiny."
After class, the students filed out quickly, eager to get to lunch. I stayed behind, pretending to be engrossed in my notebook. I waited until the last person left before I stood up and walked toward his desk.
He was busy marking a class list, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
"B+?" I asked, dropping the paper on his desk. "Seryoso, Luke? My analysis of Lord Byron was spot on."
He didn't look up, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. "Your analysis of Byron was excellent. Your analysis of 'the human condition' was a bit... biased. Too much 'hugot,' as your generation calls it."
"It’s not 'hugot' if it’s true," I countered, leaning against the desk. "And what did you mean by this note? 'Longing is safer than loving someone we can.' Are you talking about me, or are you talking about yourself?"
Luke stopped writing. He slowly took off his glasses and looked at me. The sunlight from the high windows caught the amber flecks in his eyes. The "Professor" mask was still there, but it was cracking.
"Caroline," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low register. "This is a classroom."
"I know what room this is. But you're the one who wrote this. You're the one who decided to have a philosophical debate in the margins of my paper."
"I was merely pointing out that your writing reflects a certain... restlessness," he said, standing up. He was so much taller when he was this close. "You're 22. You should be enjoying your youth, not writing tragic essays about unrequited love."
"How can I enjoy it when the person I want to talk to treats me like a case study?"
The air between us was electric, heavy with things we weren't allowed to say. Luke took a step closer, his shadow falling over me. For a moment, I thought he might actually reach out—to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, or to tell me to shut up.
Instead, he reached past me to grab his briefcase.
"I'm your professor, Caroline. And I'm Marcus's best friend. Those are the 'facts' you should stick to."
He started to walk away, but then he stopped at the door, just like he did at the house. He turned his head slightly, but didn't look back fully.
"By the way," he said softly. "The B+ wasn't for the content. It was for the handwriting. You started getting messy toward the end. It looked like your hand was shaking."
He left before I could tell him that my hand was shaking because I was thinking about him.
Dear Diary,
He noticed. He noticed my hand was shaking. He notices everything, but he chooses to do nothing. He tells me to stick to the facts, but his eyes tell a different story. He's scared, Diary. He's scared that if he lets me in, I'll see the same 'restlessness' in him.
And the worst part? He’s right. Longing is safer. Because if I stop longing and start actually loving him, I might just break us both.