In class, painfully shy Willoughby stole glances at confident, articulate, Helen.
Writing was his voice.
Willoughby's mid-term essay likened his unspoken feelings for brown-eyed classmate Helen to a poet's unrequited love for a close friend.
One afternoon, Helen texted friends while entering the campus coffee shop. She collided with Willoughby, who dropped his latte.
"I'm so sorry!"
"It's OK," he stammered.
"Can I buy you another cup?"
"Hey, aren't you in Victorian Poetry?"
"You rarely say a word, but my Mom thinks you're a brilliant writer."
"Our professor. I'm her daughter, Helen."
3 June 2016