Chapter 26
The poetry room felt like another world.
Dust-laced sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows, casting long shadows across the scuffed wood floors. Walls lined with shelves bowed under the weight of poetry anthologies, critical essays, and the musings of forgotten voices. A wide table dominated the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs, none too comfortable, but none ever empty during Langston's sessions.
Professor Langston himself stood by the blackboard, his ink-stained fingers clasped together as he watched the students file in. A silver-haired man with sharp eyes and a dry wit, Langston had the sort of presence that made you forget time existed beyond the classroom walls.
Andrew entered quietly, his satchel slung over one shoulder. Kate followed a few steps behind, notebook already in hand. Unlike other classes where distraction buzzed in the air, here there was reverence. Even the most restless students knew better than to check their phones in Langston's circle.
Today's reading was Rainer Maria Rilke—specifically, the Ninth Duino Elegy.
Langston wrote the name on the board with a quick, flourished scrawl, then turned to face the class. "What is it that makes suffering beautiful?"
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, Andrew raised his hand.
Langston gestured. "Mr. Andrew."
"I think it's not the suffering itself, sir. It's what it unveils. The vulnerability, the transformation—it forces us to confront truths we wouldn't otherwise look at."
Langston's eyes crinkled. "And what do we see when we look into that mirror, Mr. Andrew?"
Andrew didn't answer immediately. Kate, from her seat across the table, was watching him, pen still in hand. The rest of the class looked on, half-listening, half-wondering how he always found the words they couldn't.
"Something we've always known, maybe," Andrew said finally. "But were too afraid to name."
Langston nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now someone give me the line about angels."
Kate raised her hand. "All the towers of the past crumble before the angel who wants to ascend."
Langston beamed. "And what do you make of that, Miss Wimberly?"
She straightened slightly. "That the divine—or inspiration, or purpose—doesn't care about the world's monuments. That transcendence often comes at the cost of what we've built up to feel safe."
"Excellent," Langston said. "See, this is why I keep you both around—intelligence buried under all that brooding and restraint."
The class chuckled. Even Andrew smiled faintly.
As the discussion spiraled on, the two of them remained at its center, bouncing thoughts back and forth like old scholars in younger bodies. The rest watched, some envious, others inspired. There was an ease in the way Andrew and Kate communicated during poetry sessions—an intuitive rhythm that even Langston often stepped back to admire.
By the end of the session, Langston had dismissed the others, but called Andrew and Kate to stay behind.
"You both know where your minds are headed," he said, sliding a worn copy of Rilke's letters toward Andrew. "But where are your hearts?"
Andrew blinked. "I'm not sure I follow, sir."
Langston leaned on the table. "Art is not a shelter, Mr. Andrew. It's a confrontation. What you write is too careful lately. Too shielded. Let it bleed. Let it breathe."
Kate crossed her arms. "You think he's censoring himself?"
"I think he's hiding," Langston said, then looked at her. "And you, Miss Wimberly. You wear empathy like armor. But sometimes, armor rusts. Be careful it doesn't weigh you down."
Neither replied. Langston smiled, not unkindly. "The best poetry doesn't come from perfection. It comes from wounds."
Outside the classroom, they walked in silence for a while. Rain fell gently, pattering against the cobblestones.
Andrew broke the silence. "Was he right?"
Kate shrugged. "He usually is."
"I don't know how to write honestly when I don't even know what I'm feeling."
Kate stopped, tugging his arm gently. "Then maybe stop writing what you think you should feel. Start writing what you're afraid to."
He looked at her, really looked, and something in her expression startled him—something soft but resolute.
"You make it sound easy," he muttered.
"It's not. But you don't have to do it alone."
They walked on, slower now.
At the edge of the courtyard, a group of students discussed an upcoming party, laughter and plans floating around them like leaves in the wind. But Andrew barely heard it.
"What would you write about?" he asked.
Kate thought a moment. "I'd write about silence. The kind that hurts more than words."
Andrew nodded. "That's good."
"You can use it," she said, a small smile forming. "I won't sue."
He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. "You might be the only thing keeping me sane."
"Don't give me that much credit," Kate replied, nudging him playfully. "I'm just here for the poetry and the sarcasm."
They reached the dorm steps, pausing beneath the eaves. The rain fell harder now.
"You ever wonder if we're just characters in someone else's story?" Andrew asked suddenly.
Kate looked at him. "If we are, I hope they're writing us well."
He smiled faintly, then looked out into the rain.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, echoing through the old stone buildings. Another hour passed in this strange, in-between life—where poetry blurred into reality, and hearts tried to keep time with verses too honest to ignore.
Andrew thought about Langston's words.
Let it bleed.
Maybe he would.