"You really put a lot of effort into this assignment," the professor announced to the class. "I received some rather creative pieces."

The professor always projected her voice like she was talking to an auditorium of hundreds, not a windowed, white-lit classroom of 45 students. Kristina beamed at the professor's command of her class; of the professor's command on her. It's like the professor's voice grabbed Kristina by the collar of whatever she was wearing - even when it didn't have a collar - and asked, "Are you paying attention? I thought so."

And those eyes; they had a way of cutting Kristina down to her knees. She could barely hold the professor's gaze when their eyes met. Kristina was always the first to look down or to look away.

"They were intriguing, bold, courageous and...explicit," the professor continued raising an eyebrow while muffled chuckles scattered about the classroom. "It only took me two days to read through it all. It read like a unified body of work, a collection I couldn't put down. I'm rather impressed."

Nods of approval bobbed around the classroom and eyes widened.

Kristina had labored for days over what she was going to hand in, not about what she was going to write; that came easy. Kristina had written tons about her needs, about her desires, about...her. The assignment almost became an obsession, an excuse to finally spew everything that was in her mind - on the tip of her tongue, in her guts, in her blood, in her daydreams - on paper. Writing out the words made everything Kristina was feeling inside visible even though she didn't understand what it all meant. The professor had, in some strange way, gotten in her and Kristina's words were the only way to get her out.

But Kristina didn't hand in those words on the due date. Those words never reached the professor's inbox. The pieces that Kristina wrote about the professor - the pieces of her - she kept in the cloud where they would stay forever, Kristina vowed. Forev-her.

The free prose-poem hybrid she handed in was the safest Kristina could get to saying what she really felt disguised in metaphor and allegory. She wasn't really sure what she felt. It was a blend of flushed cheeks, bees in her stomach, eye contact avoidance yet a nagging curiosity to get closer, to penetrate deeper.

There was something dangerous - sexy even - knowing that the professor would read her piece without knowing it was about her. It was like a secret love letter.

That's strange. Kristina shook herself out of her own reverie. 'Love letter'? Impossible.

Kristina had noticed that she had been having these strange thoughts and feelings lately. No, not lately, ever since she started attending this professor's class which she now never skipped and showed up to on time. It was like she - Kristina - was another person, or worse, like she had some sort of split personality. She wasn't herself. Or was she? Was she losing it?

Love letter? The jitters? Get a grip, you're acting like you're in...and that's just crazy.

"In fact," the professor continued addressing the class, "I was so impressed that I selected a few submissions to share aloud with the class today. So when I call your name, please come up."

Kristina shot straight up in her seat knocking her notebook, car keys, and a pen to the floor. A few disinterested heads turned to look at her. Kristina's eyes locked with the professor's.

Don't pick me. Please don't pick me. Oh my god, don't pick me.

Couched in metaphor, allegory or not, those words - the ones Kristina painstakingly crafted - were for the professor's eyes only, not to be tossed out at random to a bunch of 20-something year olds just trying to get through an elective required to round out their semester's credits. She wished the professor could read her mind. Kristina felt like she could.

"I know I'm springing this on you," the professor acknowledged her students, "and some of you are probably not prepared to do this, so it's voluntary. You can choose to pass."

The professor looked at a small stack of sheets in her hand, "Michaels. We'll start with Jonathan Michaels."

A tall guy with a swimmer's body stood up. With dark shaggy hair and a smug grin, he made his way confidently to the front of the class. His surefire delivery was exactly the opposite of what Kristina felt anticipating that her name would be called. Kristina couldn't even pay attention to what he was saying, too fretful that one of those sheets on the desk could be hers. But she had an out and that's all she cared about. She could pass. But how would that look?

Why do I care so much about what she thinks? Stop it already.

Kristina thought through the words of her piece. If she was called to read, was there anything incriminating that would reveal….what? What exactly would it reveal? Besides, what she felt wasn't a crime. It was just...confusing.

Connections*

Intersections of chance and near misses
Crossing unexpectedly
Never with the intention to collide
But accidents happen and when they do we retreat and ask why? Why me?
Ask how? How me?

And surrounded by the smoking mangled wreckage there's an obsessive desire to know, to understand, to make sense of, to learn from.
To learn from, to embrace, and to accept that nothing, from this point onward, will ever be the same again.

It's that same driving desire that wants to make it all right again
To make it the new normal
To understand that even THAT type of connection
THAT type of destructive, unexpected force, was needed, fated, to awaken a type of yearning
That sets us on a new path
To make new connections
back
to ourselves.

Kristina didn't notice that the other guy had finished sharing his work and a girl was now reading hers. Kristina looked at her phone's display. Fifteen minutes before class was over.

Oh girl, whoever you are, please let your piece be 15 minutes long.

But it wasn't and the girl finished and smiled at her classmates' clapping approval before she returned to her seat. Kristina watched the professor pick up the stack of sheets on her desk and leaf through it; shuffling one sheet behind the next as if she was looking for something, looking for someone. Every movement the professor made was like watching a scene in slow motion. Even the crinkle of each sheet between the professor's fingers sounded crisp and loud. Kristina gulped when the professor finally selected a sheet like she was about to reveal her hand in a tense poker game.

"Kristina Davis," the professor announced. She looked around the class to see who would respond.

Kristina flinched at the sound of her own name rolling off the professor's tongue. But that's all she did. She didn't say 'yes' and she didn't move. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears.

"Kristina?" the professor asked and waited for a student to rise from their seat or at least to say something. "Okay, she's either not here or that's a pass."

"No, um, it's me," Kristina spoke up. She took a deep breath. "I'll read."

The professor tilted her head curiously at Kristina, then looked down at the piece.

"This is yours?" the professor asked.

"Yes."

The professor extended the sheet toward Kristina all the while looking right at her. Kristina made the walk from the back of the class to the front - a mere six steps - as slow as possible. She took her piece from the professor, and faced her peers.

Kristina cleared her throat and began, "Connections - "

The end of period buzzer sounded, chairs scraped back, and backpack zippers opened and closed. Class was over and students nudged their way out the door.

Kristina stood frozen at the front of the class white-knuckling her piece with two hands anticipating that she would be alone in the room with the professor once everyone had left. The professor stood a safe distance behind Kristina, patiently waiting for the room to empty and to be quiet so that Kristina could continue.

*Original piece by ChoiceCreations. I claim all rights.