#lacefile

The truth is not loud when you discover it. It doesn’t arrive like a revelation—it creeps in, quiet and suffocating, like realizing a room has been slowly filling with water.

Hidden behind the locked drawer of his desk—where no student is supposed to look—you find it.

A collection.

Not random. Not careless. Arranged with precision that feels almost reverent. A hair tie you wore last week, stretched slightly as if handled too often. A folded note you don’t remember losing. A button from a uniform sleeve. A piece of fabric cut cleanly from something you once wore, kept like it matters more than it should.

Everything labeled. Everything preserved.

Not as souvenirs.

As proof.

There’s something deeply wrong in the way it’s organized—like he’s cataloging you, not your belongings. Like each object is a fixed point anchoring him to something only he understands. The air in the drawer feels too still, too controlled, as if even dust isn’t allowed to behave freely in there.

And then you realize the worst part.

Nothing in that drawer looks stolen in haste.

It looks collected. Patiently. Repeatedly. Over time.

As if he never once doubted that he would be allowed to keep it.

And when you finally become aware of him standing behind you—quiet, perfectly composed as always—you understand something you can’t easily shake:

He doesn’t see this as obsession.

He sees it as responsibility.

Like you are something fragile the world keeps misplacing… and he is the only one careful enough to keep you safe by keeping pieces of you where they can’t disappear.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is gentle.

Almost proud.

“I thought you’d notice eventually.”

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