Writer's Note: Thank you for your comments! I'm hoping you'll stick with this. We're halfway through now, so another six chapters to go after this one. : )

He noticed the bruises in February.

"But if you consider Buridan's argument—"

They were midway through the seminar when Henry noticed the bruising on Elizabeth's forearm. He had been responding to Andrew's (faulty) interpretation of Aristotle's works, an interpretation that a couple of months ago Elizabeth would have wasted no time in tearing apart with relish, when she pushed up the sleeve of her sweater, absentmindedly, only to startle and tug the cuff down again half a second later, so that it covered her fingers in their loosely curled fist, and then withdraw her arm from the tabletop and hide it in her lap. In that split second, she had revealed the red and purple stippling that wrapped around her arm, just above her wrist. With the four darker-hued lines that streaked across her skin, it looked like a handprint.

Henry faltered. The words on his tongue had vanished, along with his train of thought, and he found his gaze glued to Elizabeth where she sat at the head of the table, her head bowed, her brow pinched with a worried frown, while she plucked and fumbled at the cuff of her sweater.

The rest of the class had faded into a hazy background, but at the sound of someone clearing their throat, he snapped back to attention and tore his gaze away from Elizabeth. He looked to the other students, hopeful that one of their half expectant, half vacant faces might provide a cue and remind him what he had been talking about.

They stared back at him. Or through him. Or down at the doodles in their notebooks.

He gave an awkward smile, massaged his brow, trying to ease the tension from the furrows, and then returned his hand to the edge of the desk where he perched. "Sorry…where was I?"

"Buridan," Andrew said.

"Right." Henry pushed himself away from the desk and snatched up a nugget of white chalk from one of the ruts that scored the oak. He paced around the desk and towards the blackboard, though there wasn't anything in particular he needed to write up. The tap, tap, tap of the chalk stub against the board, its smooth feel between his fingers, and the subtle scent of its dust anchored him; it enabled him to keep talking as though all were fine, while beneath his surface every cell pulsed with an urgent thrum. He wanted to forget it. He wanted to un-see it. He wanted to be mistaken. Elizabeth wasn't the type of girl who would stand for someone hurting her. She wouldn't let Josh treat her like that. Surely.

He finished his response to Andrew, and then glanced at the clock above the door. The minute hand was creeping its way towards quarter to. That gave him fifteen minutes at the most.

Before anyone could ask any more questions, he said, "Let's leave it there for today. If you have any essays you'd like feedback on, leave them on my desk." The screech of chair legs against the floorboards and a swell of chatter filled the air. He raised his voice so that he would be heard above the noise. "Elizabeth, if you could stay behind a minute."

While the others dumped their essays on the desk and streamed towards the door, Elizabeth took her time folding back the canvas flap of her satchel and slotting her notebook inside. The notebook had become somewhat of a prop over the past several weeks: something she stared at and occasionally dragged the capped end of her pen across in cryptic patterns, but not something she wrote in. Those insightful essays that Henry always looked forward to reading had stopped too.

By the time she tugged the strap of the satchel up onto her shoulder, the rest of the class were no more than a distant echo of footsteps and chatter from the far end of the corridor. Henry waited for her in front of the blackboard, but rather than stopping to talk to him, she strode away from her seat at the head of the table and made straight for the door.

"Elizabeth?" He prompted her.

"I can't stay." She continued to walk towards the door.

"Class finished early." He gave a small shrug, and then tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and leant back against the edge of the desk just as she hurried past. "You've got fifteen minutes before Josh arrives."

She halted, mid-stride.

A moment later, she turned to face him. One hand clung to the strap of her satchel where it rested at her shoulder, the other rubbed the cuff of her sweater sleeve between forefinger and thumb.

"I'd like for us to talk."

She studied him for a minute. Her expression was torn, as though she were debating it.

Then she shook her head and turned away. "I should wait outside."

"Why?"

She had taken half a step towards the door but stopped again, her shoulders pricked.

"Because you're worried what he'll say if he finds out you've been having a conversation alone with me?" He raised his eyebrows. "Because you're worried what he'll do?"

Her throat bobbed and clunked with a swallow. Her voice sounded almost strangled as she fought to hold it level. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

"What happened to your arm?"

"Lacrosse. Nasty fall."

"A fall doesn't give you bruising like that."

She remained silent.

"Elizabeth, if he did that to you—"

Her head snapped up. Her gaze locked on his, the look in her eyes distant and cold. "He didn't do anything to me."

"Then what happened to your arm?"

Her hand slipped from the satchel strap and she tugged at the cuff of her opposite sleeve, stretching it down further still. "I told you: I fell."

He eyed her. Part of him wanted to believe her, to believe that it was all just a misunderstanding, to believe that she was happy with Josh and that everything between them was fine. And maybe he could have believed her, if only she were the same Elizabeth who'd whirlwinded into his apartment when he'd cooked for back in November, if only she continued to challenge him and others in class rather than barely saying more than two words, if only she'd bothered to come up with a somewhat plausible excuse.

"You're lying."

Her chin dipped and she shook her head, so that the long hair that parted over her shoulders wavered and trembled and caught a shimmer of the dimming light. "I'm sorry you feel that way—"

He frowned and his tone sharpened. "Don't condescend to me."

"—but I really need to go." She strode towards the door.

"Why are you protecting him?"

She halted in the doorway. With her back still to him, she turned her chin towards her shoulder and sent him not even half a look. "I'm not protecting him."

"Then what? Protecting yourself?"

Silence.

Clunk…clunk…clunk… The clock hand juddered. The seconds rolled out.

"Elizabeth…if you're scared of him—"

"I fell."

He pushed himself away from the desk and gestured to her wrist. "Show me your arm."

"What?" She spun to face him, her chin drawn in, her nose wrinkled.

He gestured again. "Show me your arm."

"No."

"Why not?"

She folded her arms across her chest. Her sweater deflated. "Because I don't want to."

"So not because there are finger marks from where he grabbed you?"

Her cheek hollowed as she bit down on the inside of her mouth, and her chin jutted to one side. She stared at him, hard, the look cold enough that it burnt. When she spoke, it was with such defiance it felt like she was trying to eradicate every last niggling doubt from her mind.

"He loves me."

He shook his head, slowly, and held her gaze. "That's not love."

"How would you know?" She spat the words out.

He paused, his mouth open.

She held to her defensive stance, her arms folded firmly across her chest, tension radiating from her jaw. But the blue flames that had leapt to her eyes dwindled just as fast as they had arisen, and her fingers fidgeted where she'd tucked them beneath her elbows.

He pursed his lips. Took a breath. Then continued. "You need to walk away from him. Now. Before he hurts you worse."

"He's not hurting me—"

He let out a huff of disbelief. Was she really so naïve that she thought if she repeated it enough times people would actually believe her?

Her voice shot up. "—and stop telling me what to do."

"So, it's okay for him to tell you what to do—what you can eat, where you can go, whom you can talk to—but it's not okay for someone who wants to help you?"

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Then help yourself." His voice surged to match hers. "You're smarter than this, Elizabeth, you're stronger than this." He gestured to her, head to toe. "Just look at yourself."

She stared at him, her gaze empty and cold. Her tone lowered, flat once more. "I fell."

"I'm not talking about the bruises. Look at you." He gestured again. "This isn't you."

"You don't have a clue who I am. You don't have a clue what my life is like or why I do the things that I do."

"Then tell me. Tell me why you're letting him do this to you when the Elizabeth I know wouldn't let anyone treat her like this."

"The Elizabeth you know doesn't exist."

He stopped.

He waited.

He waited for the words to sink in, he waited for them to make some kind of sense. He replayed them through his mind again and again and again.

Nothing.

He frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"

"She isn't real, Henry." Her voice strained with exasperation. She waved her hand up and down, gesturing to herself just as he had done. "Whatever image you have of me, she isn't real."

Silence echoed through the room. It felt all the more thicker for the bubble of laughter that drifted up from a group of students who walked past outside the windows.

She continued to stare at him. "You don't know anything about me."

"Yes, I do." His frown deepened. He eased a step closer to her and motioned to her as he spoke. "You're sharp, you're funny, you're passionate; you're determined, you're kind, you're confident; you can hold your own in a room full of upperclassmen—"

She shook her head. The pendant that rested atop the neck of her sweater tilted and glinted, the gold warm and bright against the ribbed grey cotton, and for the first time, he noticed that the disc was engraved with the letter 'E'. Elizabeth, not Lizzie, not whoever stood before him now.

"Maybe that's who I wanted to be. But it isn't me."

His jaw tensed. He shook his head, just slightly. "I don't believe you."

She met his eye. The look was full of challenge. "How can it be me if I let this happen?"

"I…" He started, then stumbled.

It felt like she was making a point. It felt like he had made a mistake, like he had once again said the wrong thing. But without her calling him out on it, without her turning it into a way to tease him, he didn't know what he had said wrong or when.

"I need to go." She turned away and walked towards the door. "I'll see you next week."

"Elizabeth, wait—" he called after her.

But she had already gone.

He didn't see her next week. Nor the week after that, either.

In fact, for the rest of February, he didn't see her at all.