**Diary Entry – Gregory Whitmore**
I flinched when I realised the girl was twelve years younger than me. Thirty to her eighteen—yes, she was of age, perfectly legal to at least glance at, but the gap still unsettled me. Add to that, she was a student—*my* student. However you looked at it, it felt wrong, improper, downright indecent.
What could I possibly offer her, this girl who had crashed into my life like some mystical force? I was supposed to teach her discipline, lecture her on mineral extraction, mark her assignments, and grade her exams—not marvel at the coppery sheen of her hair or the startling green of her eyes.
But the strangest part? I’d seen her before she ever set foot in the technical college where I’d been lecturing for five years. Two months before her enrolment, I spotted her from my tram window—a petite, sun-squinting beauty in the crowd—and the thought struck me like lightning: *I wish I could meet someone like her.*
It was the blooming spring of 1957. The entire country hummed with the promise of a bright future. Scientific progress surged forward under the watchful eyes of speculative writers. Humanity reached for the cosmos, the ocean’s depths, the unexplored corners of the earth. And in that moment, my own heart raced toward a stranger at a bus stop. I forgot I was a lecturer, a professor, an expert—I was just a man, achingly hopeful.
*If only I could meet her.* The thought haunted me, though I scolded myself for such foolishness—infatuation with a fleeting mirage.
***
And then, against all odds, *she* appeared. Stubborn, sharp-witted, fearless—as if she could chew through any challenge. Of all places, she enrolled in our *engineering* college, of all subjects! My peace evaporated the moment she was assigned to my group. Now she had a name: *Emily*. Barely eighteen, crackling with wild enthusiasm. As if she’d been starving for education. And though I remained distant Professor Whitmore to her, she was *here*, real and close—not some phantom of the past.
I wouldn’t abuse my position to get closer. Instead, I observed—studied her in lectures, in chatter with classmates—anything to dismantle the fantasy. I wanted to know *her*, not the idea of her. Personal contact was scarce; the boundaries between lecturer and student were ironclad. No invitations to the pictures, no strolls in the park, no museum outings. Just teaching.
But as her advisor, I could organise *group* activities. The idea hit me like revelation. I nearly dashed out for cinema tickets in the dead of night! Come morning, I bought twenty-five—one for each student. I knew the college wouldn’t fund such things, so I paid myself. Soon, I was shepherding them to concerts, theatres, films—all under the guise of cultural enrichment. It bonded them—bonded *us*. The students adored me for it. Only with Emily did I hesitate.
After one disastrous conversation, I didn’t dare approach her again.
***
It happened like this. Emily and her friend Sophie were tidying the lecture hall—just dusting, sorting materials. Sophie left early, leaving Emily alone. And Emily—she *sang*.
No one forbids singing. But she didn’t just sing—she sounded like something out of a fairy tale. No enchanted creatures came to help, but *I* stopped dead outside the door. That voice—bright, shimmering—felt hauntingly familiar. *Who is that?* I barged in clumsily.
The singing stopped. Emerald eyes locked onto me, wide with horror. She grabbed a textbook, pretended to study. I fumbled for an excuse, snatching the nearest pamphlet. *”Ah, here’s my lecture notes!”* I blurted.
A dreadful silence. I stared at the page, scrambling for words. Meanwhile, Emily sat frozen, praying I wouldn’t mention the singing.
“Emily, you must be exhausted!” I managed. “Why haven’t you gone home?”
“I’m about to,” she mumbled.
“Why did you choose engineering?” I blundered. “Unusual for a girl, isn’t it?”
She blinked. “It’s the only decent college in town.”
“What about—” I floundered. “The culinary institute?”
*”Culinary?”* Her voice sharpened before she caught herself. “I can already cook.”
“Perhaps music school would suit you?” I backtracked. “You sing beautifully.”
Her face fell. “They wouldn’t take me.”
“*What?* Were the admissions board *deaf*?”
“Excuse me—I have to go.” She bolted.
I’d upset her. But how? Had I been too personal? Had she sensed my interest wasn’t purely academic? Whatever it was, I’d bungled it spectacularly.
***
I threw myself into the college choir’s affairs—*Emily must join.* The music tutor, Miss Bennett, had never heard of her. “Bring her to auditions,” she said.
But something gnawed at me. Emily claimed she’d been rejected from music school—yet sang like an angel. Why?
Sophie gave the answer in a whisper: *”Emily’s nearly deaf. One ear’s completely gone. The other just barely works.”*
The revelation knocked the breath from me. *That’s* why she watched my lips. *That’s* why they’d rejected her. And I’d joked about *deaf* admissions officers—
A plan took shape. With Miss Bennett’s approval, I corralled the entire group into rehearsing *”A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”* for the winter concert. Emily, compensating for her hearing, sang louder than anyone. And *God*, her voice—
At last, they heard her.
***
When Emily graduated—top of her class—I finally confessed. Not that she needed telling. She’d always read hearts as well as lips.
We married a year later. The age gap never mattered. Numbers belong to equations—not to love.
