Love had not been kind to Her. She was...different than Her classmates. Their hearts seemed to follow a logic, an order set forth by Aphrodite herself. But Her's did not know these laws, and so She found the things that were worst for Her. She had a knack for it.

He was the pinnacle of beauty. His hair - blonde, styled, and with a dusting of grey - framed His clean-shaven face, emphasizing the intensity of His eyes. Long, slender fingers framed massive palms, which transitioned into strong arms. He wore collared shirts, plaid usually, and brown blazers with suede elbow pads. He was, for lack of a better word, sexy.

And She knew it.

But He was Her mentor, and anything beyond the innocence of a schoolgirl crush could never be.

The band on His left ring finger taunted Her - it laughed in Her face. And although Her brain could comprehend the severe indecency of Her lust, Her heart could not, and so it feasted. On His words, on His movements, on His smile.

He picked up a book, The Poems of Sappho, and turned to the eighth page.

"I took my lyre and said:/ Come now, my heavenly/ tortoise shell: become/ a speaking instrument," He read. She relished the way He paused in the midst of lines - a subtle way of showing which words mattered most.

He showed pictures of Grecian instruments, and commented on how the lyre was created to, through the vibration of the strings, recreate the vibrations of life. The He placed His hand on His heart and beat against His chest in a steady rhythm.

"The drum," He said, "is similar. It replicates the sound of the human heartbeat - perhaps because the heart is the first thing we hear in the womb, or perhaps because as you grow close with someone, the most important sound in your world becomes the sound of their heart, beating just for you."

After four beats, He moved on with His lecture, but He continued to pump His palm slowly against His chest, as though proving that His words were His entire soul and being. And with every thump, She fell a little bit deeper.

The ringing bell caused Her chest to tighten. She slowly placed Her notebook in Her bag, waiting for all others to vacate the room, until it was just the two of Them. She stood silently, clutching Her book, The Last Time as We Are, to her chest. A week earlier, He'd led the group in a discussion of ars poetica, and She'd brought the book to show Him Her favorite example of it. But now that Her last chance had come, She found her tongue in knots.

"Can I help you with something?" He asked in His normal, friendly manner. She stood, silently waiting for Her mouth to make some intelligible noise.

"No, sir. Thank you."

She ran from the room, Her opportunity lost. But maybe that was okay.

Maybe some lovers were meant to stay star-crossed.