There was a general opinion that people didn't like Mondays. May it be a student or a professional, Monday was not greeted in a good manner.

But there was an exception to this opinion. If you looked forward to something on Monday, then it wouldn't seem like an enemy.

For me, Monday brought joy. It reignited the lost sense of purpose.

The moment a short classroom bell rang in the hallway, I pulled out a notepad from my brown leather laptop bag.

Any moment now, my students would walk inside the class. Any second, they would smile at me while figuring out where to sit for the hundredth time, like they did on Friday. And Thursday. Or any day before that.

Being a Psychology professor, it wasn't hard to theorize why they did this every time. While most boys would change their position in class based on whom they newly befriended, girls found changing their seats based on whom they wanted to distance themselves from.

What I found most difficult about my job was not to read too much into what my students tried doing.

It was like asking a dog not to be a dog.

It was in my blood to read their actions and understand why they did what they did. But it wasn't my place to tell them.

I was their Professor. Not their therapist.

When I turned away from the board, having written down the chapter we'd be discussing today, I saw the smiling faces of those thirty-two students for whom, I was God.

Well, maybe not God, but I was still their hero.

"I hope you're all ready for yet another exciting Monday?" I said. Someone moaned in the background. "Well by the sounds of it, we'd soon find out who among you is turning into a cow."

The class roared up in laughter.

Business as usual.

Unlike the Professors who taught me, I had a different teaching mechanism. I'd give the class a little homework - to read up on what we were about to study the next week - and take it from there.

My students were more than brilliant. They'd have their theories of the subjects we discuss.

They would even come up with daily instances from their lives or draw references from the movies to help others understand better.

"But Professor," Jamie raised his hand. "The trace decay theory has not been understood and experimented on properly."

While he lowered his hand and began busily typing something into his black laptop, the rest of my class began nodding.

"Care to explain it, Jamie," I said.

He looked up, forcing his sliding specs back over the bridge of his nose. "I think what we think we've forgotten is never really forgotten."

"I agree with Jamie," Sasha said, turning to him to deliver a curt nod before looking back at me. "These theories were made a long time ago. The time when we thought our subconscious forgets things if it's not rehearsed constantly."

"So, you're trying to say that if I think I forgot something, a person or a memory, it's just my mind convincing me that it's not there," I said to both Jamie and Sasha. "By that logic, my mind would be flooded with information, and I'd go crazy."

A small group at the back chuckled. While they rarely disturbed the class, they never paid attention either.

I never really understood why a bunch of those four girls always sat in the back, never answered anything correctly but always came to attend my lectures.

Before I could call them out, the classroom door opened.

The dean, Mr. Morgan, a man in his late fifties with a head full of curly grey hair and eyes that shone brilliantly when he discussed topics that interested him, walked inside.

While I tried steering clear of him and always ensured that whatever budget he allotted for my classes was utilised for my student's greatest advantage, he never seemed to be pleased with me.

Maybe it was because the first time I met him inside his office, I saw a photo of his child and asked if his daughter was in school. The child turned out to be his son.

Since then, whenever Mr. Morgan saw me, a frown appeared on his face, turning him a shade or two darker than his natural dark completion.

"Good morning," I said. "To what do I owe the please, Mr. Morgan."

He turned to look at my students, peering at some while smiling at the rest. "This won't take long, students."

He then turned to me, his straight face already making me worried.

"There was this seminar which I want you to attend," he said. I could see the corner of his eyes scanning my desk before gluing back on me. "I've accepted the invitation on your behalf."

My throat bobbed.

What I really wanted to tell him - I wouldn't be able to attend because I have an ailing cat at home who would think I've abandoned her if I don't come back - never escaped from the periphery of my mouth.

What did escape, "Sure. Let me know the time and place."

"My secretary will email you the details."

He left. And as he did, I checked the time on my wristwatch.

10 more minutes before I could dismiss the class.

"He really doesn't like you, does he?" Someone said. The others chuckled, soft at first that evaporated in the air.

"I think he has his reservations about me."

"Probably because he thinks you can't differentiate between a boy and a girl," Sasha mocked, chewing the cap of her pen.

"Hey, I told you guys that story in confidence," I said. "If you're planning on spoiling my image then please, do it after you graduate. I have a reputation to keep up."

I pulled the lapel of my blazer, trying to get everyone to refocus.

The funny thing about teaching was the teacher only had a few tricks to get everyone's attention. A few precious moments after which, if the students were distracted, it would be hard to get their attention back.

I lost the time to get everyone to refocus. Harder, because the mean girls in my class began discussing something on their own.

"I'm still here," I said. "And the class is not yet dismissed."

One of them, Florence, nodded at me. "We know, Sir... We're discussing the theory that Sasha said."

"Which is..."

"That one doesn't truly forget. That time decay theory is just a theory and once a trigger happened to a person, of a particular scent or a familiar location, those stored memories come flooding back."

Interesting.

The bell went off.

While the rest of them packed their bags and began walking out of the classroom, Florence walked towards me.

"Yes, Florence. How can I help you?"

"My..." Hesitation quivered her lips. "I'm planning on changing my major."

"Again..." My eyebrows slid into my hairline. "This would be the third time you're doing it."

"I know. I know...It's just... I don't find it compelling." She moved closer. "Unless there could be something that you try... you know...which may make me stay."

As soon as she took a step closer, I moved three backwards.

Distance was a friend. Proximity was the enemy.

Florence was my student. She was a child. Of everything that she did whereby she conveyed she was attracted to me, I tried to think of her as a baby.

"Florence, how about we discuss this some other time, in my office."

"Ohhkkayy..."

Perhaps she thought it was an invitation.

"I mean after you do your due diligence and tell me why you want to leave. After that..."

My phone rang. Had it been any other moment, I would have put it on silent. On any other day, my students would have come first.

Today, I was thankful to have been saved by the bell.

"I've to attend this call," saying that I picked up my bag, shoving my hand inside it to grab my phone.

Before I reached the door to the exit, I heard Florence's boots stomping on the floor.

Ignoring that, I rushed outside.

The hallway had never provided a better respite to me than today. An unknown caller hadn't made me feel happier than today.

I picked up the call. "Hello..."

Soft breaths on the other side, without any background noises, had me concerned.

"Hi, this is Nathan. May I know who this is..." Another storm of breath streamed through the speaker. "Okay, I think you've called by accident."

"Nate, don't end the call..."

I knew that voice. I knew who it was.

After all these years, I could still feel the apprehension in her voice.

How ironic it was that of all days, I was discussing the Trace Decay Theory in my class.

Sasha and Florence were right. I felt a storm of memories flood into my mind and body, just hearing Maeve's voice.

"Hello, Maeve. How are you?"

Funny how that voice used to make me happy. It used to brighten my day. Today, it brought forth anger and shame.

"I'm fine. Kevin gave me your number. I hope you're okay with it."

My friend Kevin always liked Maeve. He would have slit his wrist had she asked. Of all the things she could ask him, she went to him for my contact number.

I should have known better than to share my number with anyone.

"What's done is done."

"Hmm..."

Silence. Then another storm of breath.

"I'm late for-"

"I've called you to ask for a favor. Please..."

Certain people held the power to make us dance to their tunes. Their words, their actions might indicate what they tried to do but it wouldn't affect your ability to restrict them from trying to use you.

Maeve had that power. And I was helpless.

"What favor, Maeve?"

"I need to interview you. For my next assignment. Please, I'm asking for a favor because I'll lose my job if I don't."

"What's the topic?" My mouth soured. Was I really falling for her confession?

My mind knew the reality.

"Interviewing men from my past who've shaped me into what I am today."

"You think I can help? After everything?"

She didn't speak. Only muffled breaths answered. She was desperate.

"Tell me the time and place for the interview."

As a professor of Psychology, I've learned how the mind works. How people could influence our decisions.

I was yet to understand how the heart worked.

~

Why do you think Nate does not want to meet Maeve?

What lays in their past? And why are they running away from each other?

Let me know what your theories are.

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