by Marian Tee
He had known her for a total of 37 days, and of those only six had been pristine, just six days that the professor had managed not to befoul with his personal darkness. Six days, regardless of how precious they were, did not and will never a week make, and it was really just this - the sheer ephemerality of their shared history - that the professor could not ignore and obliged him to contest the nature of his feelings.
Six days.
Six god damned days, and just like that, she had become his fucking emotional thermostat, the speed and strength of his heartbeat reduced into correlative values of her proximity and perception of him.
Six days, and it had given her unprecedented power over his whole being, to the point that he found himself actually rereading her thesis like a Preston & Child paperback, devouring and analyzing every word just because her work was the only tangible thing he had of her.
His way of staying connected to her, he would silently mock himself in occasion, when all hope was lost.
And because her work drew heavily from Confessiones, the professor also found himself poring over the saint's voluminous tomes in a last-ditch attempt to find a truth that would either justify or dispute the current role she played in his life.
And he seemed to have found it, or maybe he was just so damn tired that he was ready to grasp at intellectual straws...either way, the words made more sense than the chaotic state of his emotions. In his musings over man's pursuit of happiness, the sinner-turned-saint remarked upon how such journeys began with one's earliest pleasant memories, childhood experiences which that same person would likely interpret as his first taste of joy.
All have the concept of happiness, and all would answer yes if asked whether they want it—which could not happen if happiness, and not merely the word for it, were not remembered.
And because he could not remember being happy until her, could only remember being happy when he was with her, was it not possible it was the feelings she evoked that he missed and not her?
The answer, as it tended to be for life's greatest questions, persisted in eluding and taunting him, a diaphanous outline of truth that refused to solidify all the while skirting the edges of his mind.
It revealed itself only when it was already too fucking late (or as Christians would insist, all in God's time), the validation he sought making itself clear when they met each other at a French restaurant downtown.
He was with someone else, and so was she.
But it was not the same.
Her
Diana knew she was not on a date.
She only wished she could let the others understand this, too.
The others being students who also went to Helder Meer and happened to be at the same French restaurant downtown where Magnolia's British half-brother was treating her dinner at. All of them had gawked at Ryder, whose black hair lent an exotic slant to his patrician looks, before glancing at Diana with either confusion or envy.
Some, Diana noticed, looked at her with both, plus a little bit of resentment, too.
She was used to such reactions (just one of the many hazards of being Damen's little sister), and she would normally be indifferent. Tonight, however, exasperated her. Did nobody notice the fact he was wearing a clergy's shirt, with the initials of his church even monogrammed on his breast pocket?
He was a deacon, for heaven's sake. Did they really think her that desperate, to make her moves on a man of the cloth?
Having also noticed the dirty looks coming from the female patrons at the table next to them, Magnolia's sibling could only grimace in apology, saying, "I am sorry for this, child."
Since Ryder was only a couple years older, the gravely spoken words were exactly what Diana needed to hear. She burst into laughter, tension easing from her form as his levity helped her see the humor in things.
"Maybe I should play it up," Diana joked under her breath, "just to make things worth their while."
"By all means." Ryder was genuinely supportive. While even he recognized how melancholy made her looks rather unearthly in its beauty, he would rather see her a little uglier and happier.
Which, of course, led the concerned deacon to the question of...
"What's wrong?"
Diana bit back a smile at Ryder's frankness. "You're supposed to start the conversation with something about the weather. You're British, remember?"
"I also have a red-eye flight to catch," he reminded her. "So if we could just pretend we've done our customary thirty-minute bush-beating..." He raised a brow. "Well?"
Diana tried not to squirm under the deacon's piercing stare. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," he retorted, "if Magnolia insisted that I force you to submit to Confession."
"She what?" Diana didn't know whether to feel aghast, amused, or offended.
"Aren't you glad I took you out for dinner instead?"
"To wine and dine the truth out of me?"
"Figuratively speaking," Ryder admitted without a qualm, "since neither of us drinks."
Still nothing from the other side, but he wasn't surprised. Even without Diana volunteering much information about herself, moving in the same circles meant Ryder was privy to more information than what was written about her in the tabloids.
Most of the paps described her as the mousy and bullied daughter of Esther Leventis, but Ryder had seen for himself she was a lot more than that. Her heart was chaste, in the way fewer and fewer people were able to keep theirs past puberty, and if there were anything he might do to keep it that way...
"Magnolia's seriously worried about you," Ryder said quietly.
Diana suddenly straightened, her face paling as she said jerkily, "It's him."
"I see." Guy trouble wasn't good, but it could've been a lot worse.
Diana shook her head. "No, I mean it's him. He's here." She nodded in the direction of the restaurant's main doors, and when Ryder followed her gaze, he immediately noticed the just-arrived couple being assisted by the maître d'.
The woman was a bombshell, Diana thought numbly, but more like a sophisticated version of Marilyn Monroe...or Paris Hilton with breast implants. Either way, she looked extremely good next to the professor, who looked his usual strikingly handsome self.
She glanced at Ryder, noticed his frowning expression, and asked self-consciously, "What is it?"
"It's easy to see why you're attracted to him," Ryder murmured. The man seemed to have stepped out of a Michelangelo painting, and it was no secret that the Renaissance maestro was one of Diana's favorite painters. "Is he in one of your classes? Was that how you met?"
"I suppose you could say that," Diana said in a small voice.
"He dropped out?"
"He's my professor."
Ryder choked.
Diana's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Not something you'd expect from a good girl like me, right?"
Him
Kathang Isip by Ben & Ben
The professor was in familiar territory.
Diana. Trouble. Curse in seven languages.
The situation almost felt like home, but because he also knew things could get a lot worse, he almost wished he had taken the time to learn an eighth language. The way things so often blew up in his face, he had a feeling he would soon run out of cuss words to use.
If only he had seen her before entering the restaurant's main dining hall, he could still have salvaged things, could've still saved her from more pain. But he goddamn hadn't. And now it was too late.
He forced himself to place a hand at the small of Laverne's back, which her dress had left completely exposed. There was nothing less he felt like doing, but he also knew what was expected of him. To act out of character would only raise questions, and Laverne had been with him far too long not to figure things out eventually.
As they followed the maître d' inside, he deliberately sought Laverne's attention, his every word and gesture designed to have her whole world around him.
But it was no use.
; "We've reserved your usual table, monsieur."
His usual table, which meant he would have to walk past her table.
Fuck no.
But to refuse would only make Laverne realize something was amiss and lead to a scene he absolutely needed to avoid, so he managed to give the other man a brief, tight smile of acknowledgment. "Thank you, Pierre."
Time marched on, and with every step he took, the harder his heart thudded against chest. As the distance between them continued to shrink, the emptiness inside of him gnawed more violently at the professor.
And then it happened.
Without any fucking warning.
It just fucking happened.
Her gaze finding him, and even without their eyes meeting, he knew.
She was hurting.
Badly.
So much so that her pain made it all the way to him, its scarred edges burying deep into the center of his old and damaged soul.
I'm sorry.
I'm so fucking sorry.
I'm so god damned sorry.
In the corner of his eye, he saw her companion turn to face him. The man was too damn handsome for Matthijs' peace of mind, and he might have even hated him on the spot if he hadn't noticed the clothes Diana's companion wore.
A man of God, the professor thought broodingly, and more likely a deacon or one that had yet to be ordained, given his age.
Either way, the irony wasn't lost on him. Of all the times they could meet accidentally, it had to be now, when she was with one of the Lord's trusted servants...and he was with his mistress.
The professor and Laverne finally made it to their table, and the next few minutes were a blur, with him acting entirely on autopilot while his mind was desperately doing its best to shove out his last image of Diana.
Pale face.
Trembling form.
And eyes that hurt (so much goddamn hurt) but did not hate.
What must I do to make you throw me away, mijn obsessie?
It was a question he thought he wished to know the answer to, but by the time he realized the truth, it was already too late.
Dinner was the usual affair, with the professor managing to keep Laverne suitably occupied that she didn't notice the way his gaze would occasionally stray, almost as if her presence alone was a magnet for his attention.
A call from work came just as the staff came to clear their plates away for dessert, and the professor had to excuse himself from the table. After stepping out in one of the restaurant's balconies, he took the call and the resulting conversation was brief but productive. The person on the other end of the line, a representative of a pontifical university in Spain, had asked if the professor could make time and give their students a talk on Summa Theologica. To which he had immediately said yes, because the farther he was from her, the less likely he was to do something stupid.
Such as asking her for another chance.
That was the plan at least, but when the professor pocketed his phone and left the balcony, he only had to turn back to the main dining hall to realize that "something stupid" was already there, just patiently waiting to happen.
Diana.
And almost as if she had heard him, he saw her flinch, and he had to clench his fists to keep himself from reaching out to her.
"Hello, P-professor."
"Ms. Leventis." His voice was curt, his face expressionless, his whole fucking body a rigid form of tension. It was the only way to survive seeing her and still do the right thing, and after giving her a clipped nod, he forced himself to walk past her.
"Professor?"
He kept walking.
"Is she your...girlfriend?"
He froze.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
But because he couldn't make himself pretend he hadn't heard the way her voice broke - he just fucking couldn't - he found himself stiffly turning around, and pain nearly crushed his chest when he saw her eyes.
So much hurt. He had hurt her so much. And yet there was still no anger.
"Is she, Professor?" Diana whispered.
"No." And he found himself unable to lie. "Laverne's...my mistress."
Her lips parted, and though no sound came, it didn't matter. He could hear her just fine, and her cry of pain and betrayal cut his heart into pieces.
Let it end there, mijn obsessie.
Let it fucking end there and save yourself from more hurt.
But it didn't.
Because God always answered His people's prayers.
What must I do to make you throw me away, mijn obsessie?
And he heard Diana ask, "Since when?"
No. Fuck. No.
LIE. DAMN YOU, LIE.
You didn't mean to betray her.
SO LIE. FUCKING LIE FOR HER SAKE.
And then he saw her already crying, and he realized it was too late.
She already had her answer.
Even without him saying a word, she already knew.
"I'm sorry." His voice was uneven. "I'm---"
"Since when?" And this time her pain was no longer silent or unseen, her body shaking, her tears falling faster, and her voice tremulous and whisper-thin.
He gazed at her bleakly. "For six years now."
Her
In My Life by Bette Midler
The professor sounded frantic in his texts.
I'm outside your dorm. I need to see you. Please. I don't want you hurting like this.
Let me talk to you. Please.
But Diana couldn't make herself believe him.
Please, my darling. Let me talk to you. Just three words. That's all I'm asking you to let me say.
Just three words.
Three words, he said.
Did he really think it would be that easy? That he only had to say those words and all would be forgiven?
Diana: Say it now.
Matthijs: It's something better discussed in person. Please.
She stared at the words he had typed until her tears washed them all away. She was just so tired. So damn tired. She had known that being with a man like him wouldn't be a walk in the park, but this...this was the end.
She could have and probably would have eventually forgiven him for lying about the university's dating policies (or lack thereof). Given enough time, she would've likely learned to accept that he had secrets to keep, and that she could only be patient and wait for him to trust her.
She was so very likely to do all of those things and more because he was the only man she had ever wanted to touch. The only man who could make her feel brave and beautiful. The only man who mattered.
But now...it could never be.
Diana: I'm sorry.
And because she couldn't give herself a chance to weaken, she forced herself to switch her phone off and took a couple of sleeping pills just to survive the night.
Tomorrow, she thought, hoped, and prayed.
Tomorrow, the pain wouldn't hurt as much.
Tomorrow, things would change for the better.
Tomorrow, she would do better at forgetting him.
But when the skies turned from orange to blue, and the moon gave way to warm, golden rays ---
The moment she opened her eyes, all the pain came flooding back, and she realized she had only been fooling herself.
It still hurt.
Nothing had changed.
And she still couldn't forget him.
The tears started to fall as she found herself reaching for her phone.
Three words, he had said.
Could he have said those words last night? And if he had, what then? Was it really going to be just that easy? Saint M, I'm begging you. Help me. Should it really be just that easy?
Come now, let us settle the matter, " says the Lord.
'Though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red as crimson,
they shall be like wool.
The tears fell faster. The screen of her iPhone lit up. An
d she saw his message, with the three words he had promised and she thought he wouldn't give.
Matthijs: I have HIV.
Before
Kahit Maputi Na Ang Buhok Ko by Moira dela Torre
The professor was no coward.
But at the same time, he couldn't make his feet move a damn inch. All he could do was stare, a part of him still trapped in denial, maybe even shock.
She couldn't really be dead.
But the marble headstone in front of him said differently, and his fists clenched as his gaze fell on the letters engraved on them. Letters that spelled the same name that would forever etch a wound in his heart. Letters that didn't fucking allow him to lie to himself.
Letters that sentenced him as a murderer.
The thought annihilated him, smashing all his inner defenses and breaking through the wall he had painstakingly built around his memories. He breathed roughly, battling for control, but it was like going against a powerful tide.
God.
Please.
Fuck.
No.
But it was too late.
And he could no longer stop himself from remembering.
Those last messages she had left in his voice mail.
Please, Matthijs. Please. I'm begging you. Please. I need you. I love you. I know you're still mad. I know what I've done's unforgivable. But please. Please. Please, Matthijs. Please. I just can't take it anymore. I really think I'm going to kill myself this time. I swear I'm not lying. I just can feel myself unraveling, and I'm scared. But I just can't go on like this. I can't face a life without you. So please, Matthijs. Please. If you had ever loved me please. Please. Please. Please come.
The time he had found out what she had done, and the truth had gutted him so fucking bad he hadn't even been able to feel any kind of anger.
He stared at her, unable to believe how blind he had been all these years, to never have seen that she could be this fucking selfish. This stupid. This...bad.