Chapter 144

The scent of waffles and fresh fruit lingered in the air, wrapping the room in warmth.

Abigail stood at the sink rinsing dishes, still humming to herself from the melody she’d been working on the night before. Behind her, Emma sat at the kitchen counter, dressed in her robe, laptop open, glasses perched low on her nose as she scrolled through lesson plans. Her hair was loose, catching bits of light in the morning glow.

“You look like a professor already,” Abigail said with a smile, drying her hands.

Emma looked up, her lips curving into a grin. “That’s because I am a professor again,” she teased. “Now go on, you’ve got class today, don’t you?”

Abigail grabbed her water bottle and leaned against the counter. “Yeah. Tuesdays are a long one.” She slipped her schedule off the fridge with a small laugh. “First is English Composition & Writing Workshop with Professor Fletcher at ten. She’s amazing—makes us write in class a lot, though. Says it helps find our ‘authentic voice.'”

Emma smiled softly. “That sounds like something you’d be good at.”

“She’s really encouraging,” Abigail continued, “and she gives these creative prompts that actually make you think about life. I kind of like it.” She took another sip of water, then let out a quiet breath. “Then at one, I’ve got Music History: 20th Century & Beyond.”

Emma blinked once, watching her carefully. “Who’s teaching that one again?”

Abigail hesitated for half a heartbeat, then exhaled. “Professor Shields.”

The name lingered in the air for a moment before Emma spoke, calm but firm. “So two classes with her.”

“Yeah,” Abigail admitted, shifting the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder. “Guess fate really wants me to learn from her.” She smiled faintly, trying to keep the moment light, but her tone was even steady. “It’s fine, though. She’s been professional. No weird moments since that night.”

Emma leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand as she studied her face. “I trust you. I just don’t trust her. You keep your distance, okay?”

Abigail walked over and brushed a curl from Emma’s face, smiling gently. “Always. I’ve got you and the baby to think about. I’m not giving anyone the chance to mess that up.”

Emma’s eyes softened at the words, her hand instinctively resting on her small bump. “I know you won’t. Just… promise me, if she even tries something, you’ll tell me.”

“I promise.” Abigail leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But I think she knows not to test me anymore.”

That made Emma laugh softly, the sound pulling the tension out of the air. “Yeah,” she said with a teasing smile, “you made that pretty clear.”

Abigail kissed her again, this time on the lips, slow and warm. “You need anything before I go?”

Emma shook her head. “No, baby. Just text me when you get there.”

Abigail smiled, grabbing her keys from the hook by the door. “I will. And I’ll bring you something sweet on my way home.”

“Chocolate-covered strawberries?” Emma asked hopefully.

Abigail laughed. “You got it.”

She leaned down for one last kiss, longer this time, and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Emma said softly, her eyes full of warmth.

As Abigail opened the door, the morning light followed her out, leaving Emma smiling to herself at the counter. She listened to the fading sound of footsteps in the hallway and placed a hand on her belly, feeling that quiet peace that came from knowing everything was exactly as it should be.

The drive to campus was smooth, the kind of quiet morning that made everything feel unhurried. The sky was pale and open, streaked with soft blue and gold, and Abigail had her usual playlist humming through the speakers as she sipped on her smoothie.

She glanced at her phone screen 9:25 a.m. then hit Emma’s name without even thinking about it.

The call picked up almost immediately. “Hey, baby,” Emma’s voice came through, low and warm, still carrying the cozy rasp of someone who hadn’t been awake long.

“Morning, love,” Abigail said, smiling as she slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Just wanted to let you know I made it to campus safe.”

“I figured you did,” Emma teased, and Abigail could almost hear the grin. “You’ve got English Composition first, right? And then Music History this afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, locking her car. “Ten o’clock with Professor Fletcher, then one o’clock with Professor Shields.”

Emma let out a small hum of acknowledgment. “Busy day, huh?”

“Always,” Abigail said, walking up the steps to the English building. “But at least these are the ones I actually like. Fletcher’s great she’s kind of tough, but she makes you think differently about how you write.”

“I can tell you like her,” Emma said, sounding amused.

“Yeah,” Abigail admitted. “She’s one of those professors who doesn’t just teach you rules, she teaches you how to find your voice. Kind of like how you are with your students.”

Emma’s smile was audible through the phone. “That’s sweet of you to say, baby.”

Abigail adjusted her bag strap, stopping at the door to her classroom. “I should go in, class is about to start. I’ll call you when it’s over, okay?”

“Okay,” Emma said softly. “I’ll be working on some lesson ideas, so I’ll keep my phone nearby. Have a good class, my love.”

“I love you,” Abigail said, her voice gentle.

“I love you too,” Emma replied instantly.

Abigail hung up, slipped her phone into her hoodie pocket, and took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

The familiar scent of paper, whiteboard markers, and freshly brewed coffee greeted her as she stepped inside. The morning light slanted through the tall windows, warming the edges of the desks and spilling in soft gold across the floor. A few students were already seated some chatting, some scrolling on their phones—but most were still trickling in, voices low and tired.

Professor Naomi Fletcher stood at the front of the room, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a travel mug beside her stack of papers. Her glasses caught the light when she looked up.

“Good morning, Abigail,” she said warmly, that calm authority in her tone.

“Morning, Professor,” Abigail replied, smiling as she took her usual seat near the middle.

Fletcher gave her a small nod before turning back to the whiteboard. “Alright, everyone,” she began once the room had filled, her voice carrying a balance of gentleness and command. “Let’s wake our brains up, shall we?”

The chatter faded. Students pulled out notebooks and laptops. Abigail flipped open her own, the page still marked from last class’s notes about narrative tone and structure.

“Today,” Fletcher said, pacing a little, “we’re going to work on perspective. The way a story changes depending on who’s telling it.” She paused, looking around the room. “It’s easy to write from your own view it’s harder to step outside yourself and see what others might see.”

She smiled slightly and leaned against her desk. “So. Here’s your warm-up: pick one small moment from your real life something simple, like your morning routine, a recent conversation, or something that made you think. Then, write it from someone else’s point of view.”

There was a murmur of intrigue through the room.

“Maybe you write from a parent’s perspective, a friend’s, a stranger’s. Or maybe,” she added, “from the person sitting right across from you. The goal isn’t to make it perfect. It’s to shift your lens—learn how empathy changes your writing.”

Abigail smiled faintly, tapping her pen against her notebook. She thought back to her morning the smell of waffles, the way Emma had leaned against the counter in her robe, tea in hand, her voice soft and proud as she talked about her upcoming classes.

Yeah. That was the moment.

“Ten minutes,” Fletcher said. “Start writing.”

The soft scratch of pens filled the room, mingled with the rhythmic tapping of keys. Abigail lowered her head and started to write.

She wrote about the light in the kitchen the way it caught in Emma’s curls and made her look like she was surrounded by warmth. She described the sound of laughter in their little apartment, the quiet way Emma always said I love you as though it were a promise she was making fresh every time.

But this time, she wrote it as Emma.

She imagined how Emma must see her in those moments: young, driven, chasing dreams with a heart that beat for both of them. She wrote about the tiny things the way Abigail hummed while she cooked, how she always called to check in the moment she got to campus, how she still managed to make her smile even when she was tired.

For a moment, Abigail forgot about the classroom around her. The world faded until all that existed was the page and the woman she loved.

When the timer on Professor Fletcher’s phone finally chimed, Abigail blinked like she was waking from a dream.

“Alright,” Fletcher said, clapping her hands lightly. “Pens down. Anyone willing to share?”

There was the usual pause, a rustle of movement as students avoided eye contact.

Then Abigail raised her hand. “I can.”

Fletcher smiled, gesturing toward her. “Go ahead.”

Abigail cleared her throat softly, glancing once at her page before reading. Her voice was calm, gentle but steady.

She moves through the morning like music every sound deliberate, every gesture in rhythm. I sit and watch her hum without realizing it, always doing something with her hands, always thinking three steps ahead. She makes sure I eat, she kisses me before she leaves, and she always calls when she gets there. Sometimes I wonder if she knows how safe she makes me feel how even when she’s gone, her warmth stays behind in the room.

The room was silent when she finished. Even the students who’d been half-asleep were watching her now.

Professor Fletcher smiled, her expression soft but impressed. “That,” she said, “is what I mean by perspective. You didn’t just shift the point of view you gave it heart. You made us see someone through love.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Beautiful work,” Fletcher said, giving her a small nod before addressing the rest of the class. “Take note, everyone. Writing with empathy doesn’t just tell a story it connects one.”

Abigail exhaled, closing her notebook with a quiet smile.

The hum of whispered conversation returned after Abigail finished reading, a few students exchanging looks that said they’d actually been moved by what they heard. Abigail sat back, her notebook still warm beneath her palms, the last line of her writing replaying softly in her mind. She couldn’t help but smile.

Professor Fletcher lingered near the front of the room, her expression thoughtful as she glanced between the pages in her hand and her class. “Beautiful work today,” she said, her tone measured but warm. “Before we wrap up, I want to give you something to think about.”

She crossed to the board and picked up a piece of chalk, writing a quote in neat, looping handwriting.

“We write to taste life twice — in the moment, and in retrospect.” — Anaïs Nin

The class grew quiet, heads tilted slightly as everyone read the words. Fletcher turned back toward them, resting her hip against the desk.

“Let’s unpack that,” she said. “What do you think Nin meant by this? Why might writing feel like living something twice?”

A few hands went up hesitantly.

One student spoke first, her voice uncertain. “Maybe it’s about reflection? Like… you experience something once when it happens, and then again when you sit down and really think about it?”

Fletcher nodded approvingly. “Good. Writing slows down life it lets you examine the details we often miss in the rush of living. Who else?”

Another student spoke up from the back. “It’s kind of like when you write about someone you love. You’re reliving the feeling, right? But you’re also preserving it. Like freezing it in time.”

Fletcher smiled. “Exactly. Writing doesn’t just document it preserves emotion.”

Abigail had been listening quietly, her pen tapping against her notebook. Then she raised her hand. “I think it’s also about understanding,” she said. “Sometimes you don’t even know what something means to you until you write it down. You don’t taste it twice you understand it twice. Once when you live it, and once when you finally find the words.”

The professor’s eyes softened, clearly impressed. “Well said, Abigail. That’s a beautiful interpretation and very true. Writing often reveals what we didn’t realize we were feeling.”

She let the silence linger for a moment before capping her marker and stepping away from the board. “That’s what I want all of you to take from this class,” she said. “Writing is not just about grammar or essays or grades it’s about learning to see yourself clearly. To revisit your life and make sense of it.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than a typical classroom moment. A few students nodded quietly, others simply sat in thought.

Fletcher finally smiled, the soft edge of her voice returning. “Alright, I’ll let you all go for the day. For homework, write a one-page reflection on the quote how it applies to your life or your writing process. I want honesty, not polish. You’ll turn it in Thursday.”

Chairs shuffled and zippers opened as the students began packing up. Abigail slipped her notebook and pen into her bag, feeling that small, familiar spark in her chest the one that came whenever a class truly hit her heart instead of just her mind.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she caught Fletcher’s eye at the front of the room. The professor gave her a faint smile and a nod an acknowledgment of the connection that comes from words shared honestly.

Abigail returned it with a polite smile of her own, then turned toward the door. The quote still echoed softly in her mind.

We write to taste life twice — in the moment, and in retrospect.