Sophie didn't say goodbye properly.
She hugged me, yes. She laughed, yes. But it was the kind of laughter that came too fast, too loud, like she was trying to cover something fragile before it cracked.
I watched her walk away from the campus gate, her shoulders stiff, her steps uneven. She didn't turn back.
And for the first time since I met Jackson Hale, guilt weighed heavier than desire.
I stood there for a long moment, backpack hanging from one shoulder, the evening sun low and tired in the sky. I told myself I had done the right thing. I told myself I had protected her.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I hadn't lied for Sophie.
I had lied because I didn't want to share him.
That realization made my chest ache.
At home, silence followed me from room to room.
My father hadn't returned yet, which should have been a relief. Instead, it gave my thoughts too much space to roam. I showered, changed, ate without tasting anything. Every small action felt automatic, like my body was moving while my mind stayed behind, stuck in Jackson's office.
The way his voice lowered when he warned me.
The way he stepped back after the kiss, as if distance was the only thing holding him together.
The look in his eyes, not desire alone, but restraint. Painful restraint.
I had crossed a line.
And worse, I knew I would do it again if I wasn't careful.
That was what scared me most.
Near midnight, I pulled a notebook from the bottom drawer of my desk. It was old. The pages slightly yellowed. I used to write in it as a teenager, when my thoughts felt too big for my chest.
I didn't plan to write a letter.
I didn't even know who it was really for.
But once my pen touched the paper, the words spilled out like they had been waiting.
I'm sorry.
Not for liking you.
Not for feeling drawn to you.
But for acting on it.
I wrote that kissing him first was wrong, that it felt reckless and inevitable all at once, and that the regret followed almost immediately. I wrote that I had never meant to put him in a position where he had to choose between doing the right thing and listening to whatever existed between us.
I admitted that he made me feel seen.
That terrified me.
I wrote that I didn't trust myself around him, because my feelings blurred lines I had been taught never to cross. That I was attracted to him in a way a student shouldn't feel about her lecturer, and that pretending otherwise would be a lie.
I didn't ask him to forgive me.
I didn't ask him to stay.
I just wrote the truth, the raw, quiet truth I had never said out loud.
When I finished, my hand was shaking.
I folded the letter carefully and placed it on my bed, telling myself I would tear it up in the morning.
I fell asleep before I could change my mind.
I woke up to the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Back and forth.
My father's footsteps.
My heart dropped instantly.
When I walked into the living room, he was standing by the table, my letter unfolded in his hands. His glasses were off. His jaw tight. His eyes red, not from tears, but from a night without sleep.
"Sit," he said.
I did.
"I found this on your bed," he said quietly. "I read it. Then I read it again."
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
"Are you being treated badly?" he asked suddenly. "Is anyone forcing you into private meetings? Touching you? Threatening you?"
"No," I said quickly, standing up. "Nothing like that is happening."
"Then why," he snapped, slamming the letter onto the table, "does my daughter sound like she's apologizing for wanting a grown man?"
"I wasn't apologizing for wanting him," I cried. "I was apologizing because I acted without thinking!"
His eyes hardened. "So you admit there's something there."
"I admit I'm human," I said, tears spilling over. "I admit I felt noticed for once. I admit it confused me."
"You are confusing danger with affection," he said sharply.
"No," I yelled back. "I'm confusing freedom with control... and you've never let me tell the difference!"
Silence crashed between us.
I was breathing hard now, shaking, every emotion finally breaking free.
"I've lived my whole life under rules I didn't choose," I continued. "Every step watched. Every decision questioned. I just wanted something to be mine."
"That man is not yours," my father said coldly.
And that was when it slipped.
"I love Jackson, Dad."
The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.
The room froze.
I covered my mouth, sobbing. "I didn't mean... I don't even know if it's love. I just..."
"Enough," he said.
His voice was calm now. Dangerous.
"You're packing your things," he said. "You're going to stay with your uncle."
"What?" I whispered. "You can't do that."
"I can," he replied. "And I will. You need to be disciplined from whatever fantasy you're feeding."
I stared at him, my chest burning.
The letter wasn't meant to be read.
It wasn't meant to be proof.
It was meant to be private.
But now it had cost me everything.
As I turned toward my room to
pack, one thought echoed painfully in my mind:
I wrote that letter to apologize.
I never imagined it would become the reason I was sent away.