John had substituted for enough classes in his previous university to understand one comforting truth. Most days were beautifully uneventful. You walked in, called attendance, survived the hour, and walked out without accidentally inspiring a revolution.

He stood at the podium of the final year English Literature class, attendance register in hand, mentally preparing to mispronounce at least five names and apologize sincerely for at least two. He began calling them out one by one, marking responses quietly.

“Anubhuti.”

“Present, sir.”

“Saroni.”

“Here.”

He flipped the page.

And then he saw it.

Vibino.

His lips paused for the briefest second, just enough to register recognition. His brows curved with mild amusement, like fate had decided to add seasoning to his otherwise plain afternoon.

Before he could say her name, a familiar voice from the middle bench responded in a crisp, no nonsense tone.

“Present.”

He looked up.

There she was. Pink baggy T-shirt today. Expression carefully arranged somewhere between academic focus and unresolved irritation. If annoyance had a dress code, she was following it.

Her scowl deepened when their eyes met.

His mouth curved before he could stop it.

Interesting.

He gave a neutral nod and continued with the remaining names like a responsible adult who had absolutely not fought over matcha with this exact student a few days ago. Was it a fight though?

Once attendance was done, he closed the register and exhaled softly before settling into the professor’s chair.

“You may work on your assignments or whatever keeps you productively occupied,” he said casually. “Kindly avoid screaming, furniture rearrangement, or anything that disturbs my peace.”

A hand shot up from the second bench. “Sir, aren't you our new lecturer?”

He shook his head with polite honesty. “I am merely a substitute. Your lecturer is attending a conference. I do not possess the confidence to teach English Literature without accidentally offending Shakespeare and his entire lineage.”

A voice from the back bench called out, bold and shameless. “Which department are you from, sir? Also, respectfully, why does our department not recruit ad-hoc lecturers like you?”

The class burst into laughter.

John laughed too because pretending he had not heard that would have been pointless. “Fine Arts,” he replied.

A dramatic whisper floated from somewhere in the room. “That explains the aesthetic.”

Another voice followed immediately, far less subtle. “Sir, you are a fine piece of art yourself.”

The room erupted into exaggerated hoots and scandalized giggles.

He raised a hand in surrender, smiling despite himself. “I appreciate the critique, but this gallery is closed for the students. I don't appreciate bullying. Please focus on your work.”

“As you say, sir,” someone drawled with theatrical obedience.

More laughter.

He shook his head, amused, and reached into his bag for the book. It was not a random paperback he carried around to look intellectual. It was a beautifully printed catalogue featuring works of contemporary Japanese women sculptors who moulded clay like it was an extension of their nervous system. The cover alone deserved admiration. Muted tones, abstract forms, thoughtful design that quietly demanded attention.

He flipped a page with care.

He loved this kind of work. Clay that was not shaped into obedient vases or decorative idols, but twisted, cracked, and stretched into emotion. Anger captured in sharp ridges. Grief folded into hollow curves. Joy pressed into imperfect fingerprints. Contemporary art did not beg to be pretty. It insisted on being felt.

As a contemporary artist himself, he enjoyed immersing himself in spaces where material stopped behaving like material and began behaving like memory. Clay was honest. It yielded when pressed. It resisted when ignored. It remembered every touch. John liked that about it. He liked getting his hands dirty and letting something shapeless slowly argue its way into form.

After the final round of dramatic commentary from the back bench faded away, the class settled into an almost suspicious silence. Pens moved with determination. Pages flipped with purpose. A few girls adjusted their glasses like they were preparing for academic combat.

Final year Honours students were built differently. Competitive, alert, mildly ruthless when it came to grades. The gold medal was not just an award. It was a future LinkedIn headline, a family WhatsApp broadcast, and at least three framed photographs waiting to happen.

John appreciated the shift. Noise was entertaining, but silence meant productivity. He leaned back slightly in the professor’s chair, glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as he scanned a paragraph about sculptural distortions and the symbolism embedded within them.

Somewhere in the middle bench, however, silence was fighting a losing battle against curiosity.

Vibino tried not to look at him again.

She failed.

There he sat, infuriatingly composed, like the day she had lost her favorite drink to a technicality.

White shirt tucked neatly into grey trousers. Sleeves folded just enough to suggest competence without trying too hard. Dense curls pulled into a bun that appeared effortless but probably required negotiation. Stylish glasses resting on his nose as if they had signed a permanent agreement.

He looked less like a substitute lecturer and more like a visiting speaker titled Art and Emotional Turbulence in Urban Spaces.

He had absolutely no business being in their English Literature classroom.

Fine Arts people belonged in studios that smelled of paint, ambition, and mild chaos. Not here, occupying the professor’s chair as though destiny had personally arranged this seating plan to disturb her academic equilibrium.

She squinted at the book in his hand.

Clay.

Of course it was about clay.

He would be the type.

The cover was undeniably beautiful though. She hated that she noticed. Not just the cover. The man holding it as well.

She clicked her tongue softly, annoyed at herself for caring even a little.

Focus, Vibino.

She bent over her notebook and began writing with renewed determination, underlining her thesis statement as if it had sworn loyalty to her future success.

At the front, John turned another page, fully aware that a pair of eyes kept glancing at him.

He did not look up.

Artists had instincts. You could feel when someone was studying you instead of their textbook.

But he chose to keep reading.

After all, this was a plain co-incidence.