Aaron arrived at school Tuesday morning feeling more tired than he wanted to admit. The weekend tension hadn’t faded; it had just settled somewhere behind his ribs, lodged like a knot he kept trying to breathe around. The quiet walk from the parking lot to the main building didn’t help. The air was sharp, the halls too bright, and every student he passed seemed two steps louder than usual.

He told himself it was just another day. He needed that lie more than he wanted to analyze it.

He reached his classroom and found Claire already there, crouched beside a desk, picking up a spilled stack of worksheets. Her hair was loose today, falling messily over her shoulders. She looked up the moment she heard the door.

“Oh—sorry,” she said. “A student bumped into me and everything went flying.”

Aaron set his bag down and moved to help. “Here, I’ve got the ones under the chair.”

“Thanks,” she said with a breathy laugh. “It’s one of those mornings.”

“Seems like every morning lately,” Aaron replied.

Their hands brushed as they reached for the same paper. Claire pulled back quickly, clearing her throat.

“Sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t sleep much.”

“Same,” Aaron said before thinking. “Just… a lot going on.”

She studied his face for a second. Not in a way that made him uncomfortable—more like she recognized something familiar in him.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

He nodded even though he wasn’t sure. “Just tired.”

Claire didn’t push. She simply gathered the last of the worksheets and placed them on a desk.

“Well,” she said, “if you ever need someone to vent to about this place, my door’s always open. I mean, not literally—my door sticks. But emotionally open.”

Aaron cracked a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before either could say more, the hallway erupted with noise as students flooded in. Claire gave him a small wave and slipped out of the room.

Aaron tried to shake off the morning fog, but something lingered—a sense that he had said too much without saying anything at all.

The first three periods blurred. Kids argued over test dates. Someone claimed they “accidentally” erased the board before he finished writing. A parent emailed demanding a grade update on an assignment that wasn’t even due yet.

By fourth period, Aaron’s patience was stretched thin.

During a small-group exercise, he stepped into the hall to breathe for thirty seconds. That was when a voice called from down the corridor.

“Aaron!”

He turned to see another teacher, Mrs. Kellerman, hurrying toward him. Her expression was stiff, uncomfortable, as though she had rehearsed something unpleasant.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked.

“Sure,” Aaron said.

She folded her arms. “I don’t want to overstep, but… I overheard something this morning.”

Aaron blinked. “Okay…”

“It sounded like you and Claire were having… a moment.”

A moment.

The phrase hit him with an unexpected jolt. “We were picking up papers,” Aaron said carefully. “She needed help.”

“That’s not what it looked like from where I was standing.”

He stared at her. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you think you saw.”

Kellerman lowered her voice. “Aaron, people notice things. Claire is going through a hard time, and so are you. Sometimes lines get blurry. I just want to make sure you’re aware of how things might appear.”

Aaron felt heat rising in his neck—anger, embarrassment, disbelief.

“There is nothing going on,” he said sharply.

“I’m not accusing you,” Kellerman replied, palms up. “Just… be mindful. That’s all.”

She walked away, leaving Aaron staring after her.

Mindful.  

A moment.

It felt like a slap he didn’t see coming.

He stood there longer than he meant to, breathing through the sudden tightness in his chest.

By the time lunch arrived, news—of some sort, some twisted half-truth—had already traveled.

Aaron walked into the staff lounge, and conversations dipped for half a second before continuing.

Not loudly.  

Not obviously.  

But noticeably.

He grabbed a sandwich from the fridge and retreated to a corner table, feeling like he had stepped into a room where the lights were too bright and everybody was pretending they weren’t staring.

Claire entered a minute later.

She spotted him immediately and came over. “Hey. You okay?”

He hesitated. “Did you… hear anything?”

Claire’s face shifted. Subtle. Tightening around the edges.

“What kind of anything?” she asked carefully.

Aaron sighed. “Someone said we were having a moment this morning.”

Claire blinked. Twice. Then she rubbed her forehead in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Apparently someone overheard us,” Aaron said. “Or misheard. Or decided to make something up.”

Claire lowered into the chair across from him, her shoulders sagging. “This is ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“I mean, we were literally just picking up papers.”

“I know.”

She groaned quietly. “People here have nothing better to do.”

Aaron watched her frustration simmer, mirroring his own. “I just don’t want this to turn into something it isn’t.”

“It won’t,” she said firmly. “I’ll shut it down if anyone mentions it to me.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“And you shouldn’t be dealing with this on top of everything else.”

Aaron swallowed a tight breath. “It’s fine.”

Claire looked at him in that way she did sometimes—like she saw straight through the part of him that pretended things were fine.

“You should talk to Julia,” she said softly.

He stiffened. “About what? A rumor that isn’t even real?”

“About how you’re doing,” Claire corrected gently. “About how drained you are.”

Aaron looked down at his sandwich. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Their conversation faded as the lounge filled with teachers. Claire stood, giving him a small nod before returning to her department. Aaron sat alone for a minute, trying to swallow food that suddenly felt too heavy.

After school, he walked toward the parking lot, phone buzzing in his pocket.

Julia.

*Still buried in client calls. Heading home late. You?*

He typed:

*Leaving now. Rough day.*

She sent a small heart emoji—simple, warm, quietly supportive. It softened him, but only a little. The knot in his chest stayed.

He drove home with the radio off, letting the silence fill the car. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that magnified every thought he didn’t want to hold.

When he reached the apartment, Julia still wasn’t home. He changed clothes, made tea he barely drank, and sat at the table grading until the numbers on the page stopped making sense.

At eight-thirty, the door opened.

Julia stepped inside, shoulders slumped, eyes tired from staring at screens all day.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey.”

She slipped off her shoes, noting his posture. “Long day?”

“You could say that.”

She approached him slowly, sensing something off. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Aaron hesitated.

Not because he didn’t want to.  

But because the rumor felt like a fragile, stupid thing that shouldn’t matter—and yet it did. Not for what it implied, but for the way it made him feel: exposed, misread, accused of looking somewhere he wasn’t looking.

He didn’t want that to stain this room. Or her.

“Just work stuff,” he said.

Julia watched him, uncertainty flickering across her face. She didn’t push.

She moved toward the kitchen instead. “Did you eat?”

“Not really.”

“I can make something,” she offered.

He stood. “I’ll help.”

They worked side by side in a quiet that was neither comfortable nor tense—just the silence of two exhausted people trying to hold each other gently without knowing where the bruises were today.

Halfway through cooking, Julia spoke.

“Aaron… if something’s wrong, you can tell me.”

He froze for a second. Then nodded slowly. “I know. I will. Just… not tonight.”

She accepted that with a small, sad smile. “Okay.”

They finished dinner, ate quietly, cleaned quietly.

Later, as they lay in bed facing the same direction but not yet touching, Julia inching closer by a few centimeters at a time, Aaron felt that knot in his chest shift—not loosening, just moving.

Tomorrow, he would tell her.  

Not the rumor—that didn’t deserve space—but how worn down he felt. How every place in his life seemed to demand a steadiness he was running out of.

But tonight, he let the quiet stay.

Julia’s hand found his under the blanket.

He didn’t pull away.

He held it.