Disclaimer: The main characters don't belong to me, but the rest does.

Sorry about the break. Things got busy, and there was a bit of an emotional storm. But I'm back now! :-)

Dear Diary,

I don't normally write in the mornings, but I just wanted to say that I think Meg is right about the ambiguity in my relationship with Mr. Destler, and that I intend to have a serious talk with him this afternoon! It simply can't go on like this. Things have to become more professional again, more like they were back in October, or else I think I'll go mad!

Mr. Destler is such a kind man, but it's like his heart is a steaming cup of tea that I'm holding right above the edge of a cliff, and it's burning my fingers very painfully, but I can't let it go without shattering it into a thousand pieces! So, I really need to find someplace to set the heart-cup down if I don't want to get third-degree burns. (Not the best analogy, but it'll have to do.)

Well, we'll see how it goes. Wish me luck!

(Evening)

As Mr. Destler was driving me home after our lesson, I decided not to be a coward for once, and speak my mind.

"Sir?"

"I told you to call me 'Erik'."

"Erik. This is exactly the sort of thing… Do you mind if we talk?"

"We are already talking." After a pause, he added, with a soft note of alarm in his voice: "What is the matter?"

"Nothing! Nothing is the matter. I was just thinking…" I took my courage in both hands. "I'm not used to having such close relationships with my teachers. Or grown-ups in general, for that matter…"

"You are a 'grown-up' yourself, Christine."

"I guess… But it just feels a little weird. "

"What feels a little weird?"

"This. It's just… In the mornings, you call me 'Miss Daaé', quiz me, assign me homework, and in the afternoons, all that is supposed to go away, and I'm supposed to feel at ease with all this… closeness. I don't know how to explain it, but - I hope you understand what I mean?"

"I won't be your teacher next year. Then maybe the… closeness, as you put it, won't feel so strange anymore?…"

This was turning out to be every bit as difficult as I'd feared.

"Sir, - Erik, - could we just go back to the way it used to be a couple of months ago? I mean, not like at the very beginning, - still friendly-like! - just not as… you know."

I looked at Mr. Destler, but he kept his eyes trained on the road, and didn't answer.

Still, I waited for him to say something.

Why wasn't he speaking? I had to stop myself from nervously bouncing my knee.

Then, I saw that he was blinking furiously, something shone in his eye, and I realized that he was trying not to cry.

Poor Erik.

I found myself filled with a great tenderness for him.

Ugly, unloved, and so lonely. I was struck by the thought that even if he had been handsome, he still probably wouldn't have had many friends. His genius would have guaranteed him intellectual isolation, in any case. (Kind of like in "Flowers for Algernon".)

I felt absolutely awful, and I wished there was something I could do to make him feel better. But what? I couldn't do anything without canceling out everything I'd just said.

In the meantime, his grip on the stirring wheel tightened, his hands began to softly shake, and slowly the tremor crept up his arms, to his shoulders, to his neck and chest, until his whole thin frame was wrecked with silent sobs. Still, he kept his eyes trained on the road.

Utterly helpless, I lay my head down on his shoulder, and joined him in his contemplation of the road ahead of us.

His bony shoulder was surprisingly comfortable, and I tried very hard to keep my mind blank.

When we reached my house, I fumbled with the seat belt, mumbled 'goodnight', and hurriedly got out of the car.

I'm more confused than ever, and I can't sleep. Sleep. Now.

I'll write him an email.