Strings of Destiny

19

The flashes fractured the day into shards, white bursts, shouted questions, a ring of lenses closing like a trap. Alara's breath snagged; her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag until the leather cut into her palm. She tried to step forward and couldn't. The crowd surged closer. Then an arm dropped around her shoulders, firm and deliberate.

"Professor Rivers, head down," a voice said at her ear, calm but edged with steel. "Stay with me."

She turned enough to see him: Daniel Whitaker from the English department, gray peacoat, jaw set. He angled his body between her and the cameras, widening the path with his stance.

"Back up," he snapped to the nearest photographer. "This is a campus for fuck's sake."

"Professor Rivers, are you the woman..."

"Is he leaving his wife for..."

"Look here, Alara!"

Daniel's voice cut through: "You don't get to shove a faculty member like this. Move."

He propelled her forward in small, steady increments, steering her with a pressure that never felt rough, just unyielding. Alara kept her eyes on the double doors ahead, glass panes reflecting a smudged sky, counting the steps, swallowing the tilt of panic that made her vision narrow at the edges. The shutters went off in punishing volleys; voices cracked against her like thrown gravel. They reached the doors. Daniel caught a handle and wrenched it open, easing her through with his shoulder. The heavy seal of the door thudded shut behind them. Sound dropped away at once, leaving the wide lobby in a cottony hush broken only by the echo of their breathing and the distant hum of vents. Alara braced a hand to the wall. Her legs trembled, a delayed quake. Daniel released her shoulder, stepping back half a pace.

"You ok?" he asked, softer now.

She nodded, then realized the nod was too fast to be honest. "I... I don't know..." She gestured vaguely toward the muffled silhouettes beyond the glass.

"You don't have to explain anything," he said, mouth hard. "Do you want me to walk you upstairs?"

"I can manage." She drew a long breath, let it out slowly. "Thank you, Daniel. Truly."

"Of course." Some of the iron left his posture. "If they're still there when you're done, text me. I'll bring security if we need it."

She nodded. "I will."

Daniel pushed the door to the inner hallway, glanced back once to make sure she was steady, then strode off, his footsteps fading into the stairwell. Alara stayed where she was for a beat, palm flat to the cool stone. The lobby's polished floor reflected the muted light, a pale sheen interrupted by the dark runner leading to the main corridor. Through the door's glass, the world outside still jittered, shadows shifting, cameras angling for a line of sight. Her chest tightened, a lingering echo of the crush; she inhaled until her ribs hurt and counted backward, five, four, three, until the prickling panic receded. She smoothed her hair with an unsteady hand, straightened her coat, reset her grip on the bag. The ordinary acts, buttons, strap, breath, felt like reclaiming small territories inside herself. The stairwell was cold, the handrail slick with condensation from coats that had passed before her. She climbed with deliberate steps, the hush amplifying each heel-strike. By the second landing her breathing had evened, but the scene replayed in bright, broken frames: the flash-bursts, the question that cut deepest

Is he leaving his wife for you?

The hot flare of shame that wasn't hers to carry and yet burned anyway. At the top, the corridor narrowed and quieted. Bulletin boards lined the wall, conference flyers, student readings, faded notices about office hours. The ordinary mess of academic life. Alara let her gaze rest there an extra second, drawing a thread of calm from the familiar clutter. She turned left, following the runner past a bank of windows where the gray daylight flattened into rectangles on the floor. When she reached the coordinator's suite, she paused. The brass nameplate, the oiled depth of the old wood door, the faint scent of paper and coffee, these were anchors. She lifted her hand to knock and hovered, breath held, pulse thudding in her throat. Then she exhaled, and let her knuckles fall toward the wood. A muffled pause, then a voice from within, warm and even: