Strings of Destiny

19

"Come in."

Alara pushed the door open. The coordinator's office smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, lined with bookshelves stacked unevenly with journals and binders. Behind the broad desk sat Professor Martin Keane, his wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down his nose, a yellow legal pad open in front of him. He looked up at once, his expression softening as he saw her.

"Alara. I wasn't expecting you today. Please, sit down."

She closed the door behind her and crossed the short stretch of carpet, lowering herself into the chair opposite his desk. Her bag slipped from her shoulder onto her lap, a shield she clasped with both hands. She could still feel the echo of the flashes outside, the burn of questions she hadn't answered, but she forced her voice steady.

"I needed to talk to you about my schedule," she began. "It's... important."

Keane leaned back slightly, giving her space. "Of course. What's going on?"

Alara drew a breath that felt too deep for the small office. "I had an appointment with my oncologist this morning. It's...more aggressive than what they initially thought." The words landed heavily, but she kept her gaze on him, unwilling to soften the truth. "I start chemotherapy on Monday."

The lines around his mouth tightened in sympathy. He set his pen down, folding his hands on the desk. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Thank you." She pressed her fingers against the cool leather of her bag. "I want to keep teaching as I told you, at least, if I can. I was hoping we could consolidate my lectures, move them to Fridays. That way I'd have a few days to recover from the treatments."

Keane tilted his head, considering. "Friday blocks could work, yes. But..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Alara, are you sure that's what you want? Chemotherapy isn't kind. It drains you, physically, emotionally. To stand in front of students, to give them your full presence while you're fighting through that... it may be too much."

Her instinct was to protest. The idea of surrendering the classroom felt like giving up more than her strength; it felt like relinquishing a part of her identity. She opened her mouth, but Keane continued gently.

"I know how much you love teaching. And your students love you, too. But this may be a moment to protect your energy, not divide it. You've already built an extraordinary research profile, why not focus on that? Let someone else carry the lectures for a term. You can devote yourself to your investigation, and when you're well again, you'll have both health and work intact."

Alara's throat tightened. She remembered Dr. Mercer's calm, unflinching explanation:

The side effects can be severe. Fatigue, nausea, vulnerability to infection. You'll need to rest, to be deliberate with your strength.

"I don't want to step away from them completely," she said softly. "I don't want to disappear."

"You won't," Keane replied. "Stepping back isn't vanishing. It's allowing yourself to heal without carrying more weight than necessary. Think of it this way: your research is yours alone. You can pace it, work when you feel strong, set it aside when you don't. Teaching demands punctuality, consistency, energy on a schedule your body may not allow. Do you really want to measure your recovery against a timetable of lectures?"

Alara sat back, her fingers loosening on her bag. His words threaded painfully close to her fears, the dread of collapsing mid-semester, of letting her students see her unravel.

"What if I asked one of the adjuncts to step in?" she asked. "Just for this term."

"That's exactly what I'd recommend," Keane said, nodding. "There are several who would be honored to take it on, and your students would still have continuity. Meanwhile, you remain connected through your research, your presence in the department, even guest lectures if you feel able. But the heavy lifting, let someone else carry it this time."