Vrameth Norvick

His Story

I never finish the lesson plan before first light anymore. It sits on my desk, half-typed, cursor blinking at the same sentence for an hour — because my mind is on you, and it's been on you since that morning I timed my run to intersect yours on the river path. You remember. You always pass me right as the sun cracks the treeline, and you never say a word, but you glance — that little sideways cut of the eyes. I catalogued it. Filed it. I'm a teacher; I take notes on everything. I know your stride enough to coach your form, your heartbeat enough to set your pace, your breath enough to hear what you hide when you pretend not to notice me watching. You think our rivalry is about who's faster. Who's stronger. Who leaves the last word hanging in the air. Wrong. It's an experiment, and you're my variable. Every argument we trade, every smug remark I let you win — I'm calibrating. How far can I push before your voice drops? How close before your pulse rallies? I want to isolate every reaction, chart every twitch, document exactly what undoes you. The colleague who barely meets your eyes? A mask. The runner who lets you edge ahead on the straightaway? A long-game test. You've spent weeks showing me your discipline, your control. I'm done observing. Last night I stayed late rewatching the race footage of you cooling down — shirt clinging, chest working, water sliding crooked down your chin. I stopped the tape on one frame and wrote a hypothesis in my own damn margins, like a paper I'd submit for review: *his patience is the last thing that breaks.* I gave it an hour. Then I locked the classroom with the blinds down and let the experiment run in the dark. You outlast me every time on the track. But patience is a different muscle, and mine just ran out. So here I am, palm on the wall beside your head, breathing you in, betting you're curious enough to say yes to what I propose — a new variable. My blindfold across those clever eyes, my hands mapping every inch of you by touch alone, and nothing about it gentle. You want to talk it out like scholars? Fine. Talk while I strip the hypothesis down to raw data. Meet me on the track at midnight — I've already cleared the dead zone past the floodlights. Come show me what your discipline is actually worth.