Edward hesitated when he learned the girl was a full twelve years younger than him. He was thirty, she was eighteen. Yes, she was of age—legal to admire, at the very least—but the age gap unsettled him. Add to that, she was a student enrolled in his class. From any angle, it felt improper, dishonourable, downright awkward.
What could he possibly offer someone who had so mysteriously crashed into his life? He was supposed to lecture her on discipline, teach mineral deposit development, grade her exams, review her notes—not dwell on the warm copper hue of her hair or the mesmerising emerald green of her eyes.
Yet the mystery lay in the fact he’d seen Emily before she became a student at the polytechnic where he’d taught for five years. It happened two months before her enrolment. Glancing out the tram window at the crowd of commuters, Edward’s gaze locked onto a petite beauty squinting against the sun. The shock of recognition hit him like lightning: *If only I could meet someone like her!*
It was the vibrant spring of 1957. Across the nation, the air hummed with the promise of a bright future. Under the watchful eye of science-fiction writers, technological progress surged forward. Humanity raced toward space, the ocean’s depths, the planet’s farthest corners. And yet, right then, Edward’s heart hurtled toward the stranger at the stop. In that instant, he forgot he was a lecturer, a professor, an expert—he was simply a man, timidly dreaming of happiness.
*If only I could meet her!* he’d often think, only to dismiss the fantasy, scolding himself for this foolish infatuation with a fleeting vision.
***
Yet *happiness* found him anyway—stubborn, quick-witted, fiercely determined to conquer everything in her path. Who would’ve thought she’d enrol in a *men’s* polytechnic, of all places, and in such a demanding field? Edward lost all peace when she appeared in the group assigned to him, suddenly given a name—Emily. Barely eighteen, brimming with wild enthusiasm, as if starved for education. To her, he was just *Mr. Whitmore*, the distant lecturer. But at least now she was near—real, alive, not some fleeting illusion.
He refused to misuse his position to get closer. Instead, he observed her, trying to see beyond the image in his mind. He wanted to know who she truly was—studied her in lectures, among classmates. Personal contact was rare; as a young lecturer, he was bound by professional distance. No cinema invites, no park strolls, no museum visits. Only teaching.
Though as a tutor, he *could* organise outings—for the *entire* group. When the idea struck, he nearly rushed out at midnight for cinema tickets! Barely slept, then bought twenty-five the next morning—one for every student. The polytechnic wouldn’t fund such things, so he paid from his own pocket. Soon, he was taking them everywhere—concerts, theatres, films. To justify his joy in seeing Emily, he masked it as cultural enrichment for all. Ironically, it bonded the group to him. They adored Mr. Whitmore—fair, approachable. Yet with Emily, he still held back.
One awkward conversation had taught him caution.
* * *
It had happened like this. Emily and her friend Sophie were tidying the lecture hall—nothing major, just dusting and sorting materials. But Sophie rushed off, leaving Emily alone. She didn’t mind. She loved the quiet, methodically straightening chairs, aligning desks, humming as she worked.
Singing, really. Why not? Students weren’t forbidden from it. She sang unaware of how much she resembled a fairy-tale heroine from one of those distant animated films about princesses.
No enchanted creatures came to help her, of course. But Mr. Whitmore, passing the hall, froze. That voice—bright, shimmering, almost operatic—felt hauntingly familiar. *Good lord, how is such impossible beauty even real? Does she sing in the polytechnic choir? I must ask.* He blundered in, trying for quiet, but the creaking door ruined it.
The singing stopped. Emerald-green eyes fixed on him in horror. Emily flushed, pretending nothing had happened—as if the walls had never echoed with song. She snatched a textbook, dropped into a seat, flipped to a random page, and stared at it. Edward, equally flustered, mimed searching the lectern drawers. Naturally, they were empty. Desperate, he scanned the shelves.
“Ah! Here’s the manual!” he blurted, grabbing a tattered booklet.
He pretended to read, frantically hunting for conversation starters. All he saw was blank paper. Silence stretched. Emily, glued to the textbook, prayed he wouldn’t mention the singing. Maybe he hadn’t heard? No, he must have. She sighed.
“Emily, you must be exhausted! Why haven’t you left yet?” burst from him.
“I—I’ll go soon,” she muttered.
“Emily… why *did* you choose engineering? Unusual for a woman, don’t you think?”
“Aren’t exactly many options here,” she said, surprised.
“Surely there’s—wait, culinary school—” He realised his blunder too late.
“Culinary?” she nearly snapped, then checked her tone. “I mean—there’s no proper college here.”
“Culinary doesn’t appeal?”
“No.” She glared at the mining engineering textbook. “I can cook fine already.”
“Admirable, admirable. Perhaps music college would’ve suited you?” *Recover, you fool.* “I heard… you sing beautifully.”
“They didn’t take me.”
“What? Impossible. Was the admissions panel deaf?”
Her face fell. “Excuse me, I have to go.” She slammed the book shut and bolted.
“Goodbye—” he managed, stunned.
He’d upset her—but how? Too personal? Had she guessed his interest wasn’t purely academic? Worse—that it was romantic? That *would* frighten her. *Idiot.* Now he’d have to tread carefully.
***
Edward became oddly invested in the choir. He knew the polytechnic had one, though he’d never cared before. Did Emily sing there? If not, she *should*—her voice shouldn’t be wasted in empty halls. He approached the music tutor, Miss Harrington, under the guise of discussing a New Year’s performance. His group wanted to sing—and they had a *golden voice* among them.
Miss Harrington was puzzled. None of his students had ever joined the choir. She knew nothing of this *golden voice*.
“But—Emily Carter?” he pressed.
“Never auditioned. Bring her. Let’s hear her.”
***
Baffled, Edward pieced it together. Emily claimed she’d been rejected by music school—yet sang brilliantly. He wasn’t musical, but he *knew* talent. Applied—rejected. Sang alone—ignored the choir. Something was off. He asked Sophie, Emily’s outspoken friend, why Emily never joined. Sophie, unbothered, spelled it out:
“*What?* You don’t know? Emily’s… nearly deaf.”
“*Deaf?*” The revelation shook him like a tidal wave.
“One ear’s completely gone. The other just barely works.”
“But—we spoke fine. And she *sang!* How?”
“Lip-reading. Watch—she always focuses on mouths when people talk.”
*Oh.* Those emerald eyes locked onto his not just from infatuation, but necessity. No wonder she sat front-row—medically required. No wonder music school rejected her. And like a fool, he’d joked about *deaf admissions panels.*
He was gutted. Yet instantly, he hatched a plan. He *had* to help her sing. Returning to Miss Harrington, he explained. She agreed to listen—if Emily could carry a tune despite limited hearing.
Convincing Emily alone was impossible, so he roped in the whole group for a New Year’s performance. Just as always—inviting Emily meant inviting everyone. They rehearsed *Those Were the Days,* a nationwide hit that year.
And—oh, the irony—Emily’s partial deafness made her sing *loudly.* Finally, everyone heard her stunning voice. Edward smiled privately, watching her beam during rehearsals, then on stage. His quiet victory.
***
When Emily graduated—flawless thesis defence—Edward finally confessed. Not that she hadn’t guessed. She could read lips, after all, and hearts. A year later, they married. The age gap meant nothing; numbers mattered in calculations, never in love.
