Then everything changed. The broom hit the ground with a sharp sound. Footsteps rushed toward me. Knees touched the floor beside my body, and before I could brace myself, something warm landed on my cheek.
Tears. Real tears. I felt her hands shaking as she touched my face, her voice breaking in a way that pierced straight through the lie I had created.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice uneven and raw. “Please wake up. Please do not leave like this.”
She was crying openly, not caring who might see, not thinking about rules or positions. She called me by the title she always used, but now it carried desperation rather than respect.
“Sir, please,” she said again. “I cannot do this. Not now.”
My chest tightened, not from the act, but from guilt. I wanted to end it right there, to open my eyes and apologize, but something stopped me. I told myself I needed to see more, though even then I knew that was a lie I told to justify my silence.