April 21, 2025
by Leila Norwood

I hate that I’m attached to my English teacher. I hate it. It’s the kind of thing I’d clown someone else for if I wasn’t living it myself. But here I am, heart doing weird gymnastics every time he laughs or says my name.

He’s foreign—which somehow makes it worse and better? He’s got that quiet charm, the accent, the way he actually listens when you talk. He’s smart as hell, gentle, funny in a way that doesn’t feel try-hard. Just… good. Like, genuinely good. Ugh.

And yeah, I feel so ashamed. I’m not supposed to feel this way. It’s not even that I think anything would ever happen—I don’t. I know better. But still, every day after class I find myself talking to him, like it’s just a casual little tradition now. I don’t even know if he enjoys it or if he’s just being polite. But he never rushes me off.

Today he was explaining the Metric system vs. the Imperial system to me and my friend, and out of nowhere he picks up my capybara keychain and goes, “Back then, this would be the same height and length as a rock.” I burst out laughing. It was such a dumb, perfect little moment. I’ll probably remember it way longer than I should.

I love our talks. I love being around him. I know I’m just a student to him. But to me? He’s become this soft, unexpected part of my day that I secretly look forward to way too much.

I hate that I’m attached. But I also kind of love it. And that messes me up