Chapter Four: Nocturnal dialogue.

The sound of the rain beating against the French windows wasn't the one that broke the silence of the dead night. Beneath the pillow the phone had been stubbornly ringing, stirring me awake, jerking my consciousness in the worst manner imaginable.

I didn't need to look at the screen of the device to know who had to call me at this time of the day.

"Hello?" I heard my hoarse voice expand in the void. This was dangerously becoming a habit, these almost secret calls in the wee hours, even when there really was nothing to talk about.

"Were you sleeping?" He was almost shocked, and had the nerve to ask.

"Yes. No. Does it matter?" I had to clear my throat, irritation evident at the ugly sound. The grogginess wouldn't leave me for another ten seconds.

"Sorry."

Just one word and something in the professor's speech pattern made me instantly alert, a frown forming on my face.

He was unusually somber if not melancholic, but that wasn't what was striking about it. I surprised myself at the easy observation. I didn't realize I had already become sensitive of his moods now.

Taking in the limited light in my space, I blinked again and again as I focused my sight on the plastic constellations pasted on the ceiling.

The feelings he was unintentionally channeling through the call were disconcerting, weighing me down with the tangible heaviness.

I convinced myself that he hadn't meant to seek for me, that it just happened to be an accident that I was the first person he was able to reach. And I couldn't ask him what was wrong because it wasn't in my nature to prod though I certainly tried, mouth open with the question hanging between us.

"My dad," he sighed the words, not elaborating since there really was no need to. It was easy to assume that the professor's influential father wanted his way with things again.

"I see."

I sincerely wished I could be more emphatic however I had always been short in that field.

But he had accepted the company which seemed enough for him.

"Don't worry about it," I added in attempt to cheer him up, anyway not sure if it was the right thing to say. It was an embarrassingly standard operating procedure statement, and I cringed to myself at the mention of it.

Finally, the angry storm had ceased its torment, quiet slowly returning in this little house. Time passed slowly now as eternity seemed to stretch while I waited in my bed for an answer that might not come.

He didn't say anything to acknowledge the hope in things but there was comfort in his silence and a sense of calm in the absence of words. I figured it was actually him who was doing me a favor.

"Thank you for answering the call."

Shadows had stilled and my breath stopped for a very short second. How could such gratitude be so impacting like this?

My response came a little too late.

"Anytime."

Anytime.

At the back of my mind I knew that the word was going to haunt me from then on, like an unwanted promise I was bound to keep.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sweetie," the professor mumbled as if it were an afterthought, still slightly pensive.

I couldn't resist a pout. I still hated to be reduced to such pun.

"Go to sleep, Cat. It's late. Bye."

The call ended but that was also when I started having his dreams.

Chapter Three: As a blush gives way to a bruise.

As he immersed himself in the loud music that bounced within the sound-proof room, the professor was transformed into another person.

He had a sure, firm grip of the slender sticks and paid too close attention to the harmony of the other instruments that completely drowned the steady reverberation of the downpour outside.

I shuffled uncomfortably on my seat, trying to understand the sounds swirling about.

The one who tried to sing, another young professor who succumbed to the calls of five-minute fame, made a ridiculous attempt to cover the song, and I shook my head at the unfortunate limitations of his vocals as I struggled not to openly laugh.

Sir Dan, who I started calling Cat (because I couldn't bring to just call him Dan whenever we were already outside the classroom even if he insisted) was still set on delivering his parts as if there was no room for mistake even at practice. He was easily a perfectionist, and even with music he was as unforgiving as he was with arguments in logic.

My train of thoughts about the drummer was broken when my name was called.

Actually, the Automata professor merely mouthed the word and waved my way.

Sweetie, he had said. That was clearly a pun to my name and a joke that had stuck. The annoying man refused to call me by my name, saying that it rather sounded too lame for someone like me.

"No thanks," I replied even though I knew he wouldn't be able to hear me behind the slightly parted glass doors.

They were having a few minutes break now and he wanted me to step inside the studio.

I was lounging on the bench in the empty and narrow hallway adjacent to the crammed room, uncharacteristically patient and thoughtful.

The drummer didn't move from his position but twirled one of the sticks in his fingers expertly. He had previously mentioned that he taught himself to use the bulky percussion and that he identified himself as an amateur to it.

Show off, I mouthed and playfully stuck my tongue out.

It was almost taboo that I was allowed to even do such thing to a professor even if I could debate that we were a little more familiar now.

I couldn't help but muse on Sir Jessie's comment about his colleague thirty minutes ago as we were just heading to their scheduled practice.

"Dan only hangs out with people he likes."

Isn't that what people are normally inclined to do? I had asked, knowing that he was anyway implying something. It was almost unbelievable that even the balding young instructor was teasing us now.

I had stopped the urge to roll my eyes and defend myself. Didn't I anyway say that I couldn't care less of what other people think? Commenting about it would just mean there was anyway something going on.

The two professors just had to laugh at me, conspiring as they shared a secret thought to themselves and embarrassing me somehow. The traitor didn't bother explaining why he had to drag me with him anywhere he pleased, and though I wasn't one to complain or question at the face of boredom and nothing better to do, I was starting to wonder to myself.

The sharp blast of the electric guitar brought me back to the deserted corridor and had me center my concentration to the oriental eyes that were curiously staring at the clueless bespectacled girl by the double doors. I didn't realize until my ears burned that the girl was actually me.

Blushing, I decided, was just as demeaning even when nobody could notice the red tinge across my confused face.

The noise that filled the beat-up place was just as taunting as the blood that was persistently pounding in my ears.