📘The Bell Rings, But Not for Me

One
The first time she noticed him, he was sitting at the back of the classroom, arms folded, his hoodie half-zipped, hair carelessly swept to one side. It wasn’t the usual way she noticed students—her trained eyes saw attendance, engagement, performance. But this was different.

She shouldn’t have looked again. But she did.

His name was Ayan. He was 25, returned to college after dropping out years before. The community program allowed adult learners to sit in on advanced classes, and as fate would have it, Literature 401—her class—was one of them.

She was 39. A wife of sixteen years. A mother of three. A high school English teacher by day, adjunct professor by night. Her world ran like a machine: school drop-offs, lesson plans, reheated dinners, bedtime stories, exhaustion. There were no surprises anymore. No poetry. No mischief.

Until Ayan.

Two

The first real conversation they had was about The Great Gatsby.

“You know,” he said as he lingered after class, “I never understood why Gatsby kept believing Daisy would come back. Like… isn’t that delusion?”

She smiled. “Sometimes, love is the most beautiful kind of delusion.”

“Or the most dangerous.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Something in her chest tightened. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and straightened her papers.

“Do you always challenge your teachers like this?” she asked, half-teasing.

“Only the ones who make me think.”

Three

It began innocently.

He stayed after class more often. Sometimes, they would talk in the hallway until the janitor flicked the lights. Other times, they’d walk to the parking lot, lingering near her car as she held her keys like a fragile barrier between logic and desire.

He would ask about authors, but also about her—her life, her thoughts, the books she loved as a child. No one had asked her about *her* in years. At home, she was Mom. In school, she was Ma’am. But with Ayan, she felt seen.

And then one evening, he asked, “Why do you always wear that ring?”

She laughed awkwardly. “Because I’m married.”

“Are you happy?” he asked bluntly.

She didn’t answer.

Four

The messages began next. At first, it was class-related—an article, a quote, a question. Then it turned more personal. He’d send photos of a book he found in a thrift store, or a café he thought she’d like. He started calling her “S.” Just the letter. Said it was easier to type. But she knew it meant something else—intimacy. Secrecy.

Her husband, Rahul, never noticed. He was always buried in spreadsheets, late-night calls, bills, and complaints about the kids’ grades. At dinner, he barely looked up. The space between them was filled with what-ifs and silence.

With Ayan, the silence was electric.

Five

One rainy afternoon, she found a note tucked inside her copy of *Wuthering Heights*, left at her desk.

> “Meet me at Blue Bridge. 7 p.m. Just talk. No expectations. —A.”

Her hands shook. She reread it a dozen times. She knew the bridge—just outside town, where students went to smoke or watch the sunset. She had no business going there. She had papers to grade. Children to tuck in. A husband to ignore.

But still, she found herself there.

He was waiting, leaning against the railing, soaked to the bone but smiling.

“You came.”

“I shouldn't have.”

“But you did.”

They didn’t touch. Didn’t kiss. But something passed between them, heavier than a hundred touches. Her heart hadn’t raced like that in years.

Six

They began meeting secretly—at cafes far from campus, old bookstores, sometimes even in her car. She laughed with him. She cried once, too, when he asked what she’d given up for her marriage.

“Everything,” she whispered. “I gave up everything that made me…me.”

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

“I can’t,” she said.

“I’m not asking for anything.”

But he was. And she knew it.

Seven

Guilt came like waves—crashing, pulling her under, letting her surface only long enough to breathe before dragging her down again.

She’d stare at her kids—Meera with her braces and violin, Aarav building Lego castles, and baby Tara with yogurt in her hair—and feel like a fraud. She’d hug Rahul and wonder when the last time was that he’d touched her with purpose.

She wasn’t having an affair. Not physically. But emotionally? She was already drowning in one.

One night, she told Ayan they had to stop.

“This is wrong,” she said. “I’m not the kind of woman who cheats.”

“You’re not cheating,” he said. “You’re remembering how to feel.”

She turned away.

“I have to forget.”

Eight

They didn’t speak for two weeks.

She deleted his messages. Buried herself in work. Pretended to laugh louder, smile wider. But something inside her had dimmed. She missed the ache, the flutter, the stolen glances that made her feel sixteen again.

Then, one evening, she found another note.

> “Library. Last time. No games. Just goodbye. —A.”

She told herself she wouldn’t go. But she did.

He was waiting among the poetry shelves.

“You still came,” he said softly.

“I wanted closure.”

He stepped closer. “So this is how our story ends?”

“There was never supposed to be a story.”

He reached into his coat and handed her a small, folded piece of paper.

“What is this?”

“My side of the story.”

And then, he walked away.

Nine
She waited until she was home. Her kids were asleep. Rahul was snoring. The silence was hers.

She unfolded the note.

---
S
You once told me love was the most beautiful kind of delusion.
I believed you.
But I also believe love is not meant to be hidden in shadows.

I don’t blame you. You were honest from the start. You never promised me anything.
And yet, I fell. Hard. Quietly.

You made me want to be more than I was.
And I wanted to give you more than I had.

But some stories are meant to remain unwritten.
You were my favorite chapter.

A


She cried, quietly, so no one would hear.

Ten

Years passed.

She never saw Ayan again. Word was, he moved cities. Started teaching somewhere. Sometimes she thought she saw him in bookstores, or heard his voice in a crowd, but it was always someone else.

Her marriage stayed intact—functional, quiet. She raised her children. Published a few poems. Wrote a book no one read. Grew older.

But some nights, she would open a drawer where the note still lived, and read his words.

She never replied.

Because she knew, if she wrote him back, she’d fall all over again.

And this time, she might not stop.


Author’s Note

Love comes in many forms—some wild and freeing, others soft and fleeting.
But the most haunting kind of love is the one that’s never given a chance to begin.