Gregory faltered when he discovered the girl was a full twelve years younger than him. He was thirty; she had just turned eighteen. Yes, she was of age—at the very least, he could look in her direction—but the gap still unsettled him. And, to make matters worse, she was a student, there to learn from him. Whichever way he turned it, it felt wrong—an abuse of position, a betrayal of decency.
What could he possibly offer her, this girl who had mysteriously crashed into his life? He was meant to teach her geology, oversee her exams, and mark her notes—not dwell on the rich copper of her hair or the fathomless green of her eyes.
Yet the mystery ran deeper. He had seen Nina before she ever set foot in the college where he’d lectured for five years. Two months before her enrollment, he had been gazing idly from a bus window when a slight, bright-eyed girl, squinting in the sunlight, caught his gaze. The jolt of awareness hit him like lightning: *I wish I could meet someone like her.*
It was the fresh, hopeful spring of 1957. Across the country, the air hummed with the promise of a bright future. Scientific progress flourished, spurred on by the visions of novelists and dreamers. Mankind reached for the stars, the ocean depths, the uncharted corners of the world—and in that moment, Gregory’s heart hurtled toward the stranger at the bus stop. For once, he forgot he was a lecturer, a professional. He was simply a man, timidly longing for happiness.
*Someone like her,* he would catch himself thinking later before shaking off the thought, furious at his ridiculous infatuation with a fleeting vision.
***
Yet “happiness” found him anyway—stubborn, sharp, and fiercely capable. Of all places, she had enrolled in a male-dominated technical college, of all things. Gregory lost all peace the moment the mystery girl appeared in his assigned class—and then, suddenly, had a name. *Nina.* Barely eighteen, with a freight train’s worth of wild enthusiasm, as though starved for education. And though he remained “Mr. Whitmore” to her—distant, proper—she was now a constant, vivid presence, no longer a phantom.
He dared not misuse his position to court her. Instead, he observed, desperate to see her as a person, not an ideal. He studied her in lectures, among her peers, careful to maintain the necessary distance between lecturer and student. No cinema invitations, no museum strolls—just lessons.
But as their group advisor, he *could* arrange outings—for everyone. The first time the thought struck him, he nearly ran for cinema tickets in the dead of night. By morning, he had bought twenty-five—for the entire class. The college would never fund such frivolities, so he paid himself. Soon, Mr. Whitmore was ferrying them everywhere: concerts, plays, films. To bring Nina joy, he masked it as culture for all. Ironically, it united them—students adored him, sensing his care.
Only with Nina did he hesitate.
Once, he had fumbled a conversation, leaving him unsure how to approach her.
***
It happened like this. Nina and her friend Lucy were tidying the lecture hall—dusting shelves, sorting materials. But Lucy rushed off, leaving Nina alone, humming as she straightened chairs.
And *what* a voice—bright, sparkling, like something from a fairy tale.
Gregory, passing by, froze. That voice—was it familiar? Impossible, yet achingly beautiful. Did she sing with the college choir? He meant to step in quietly, but the creaking door betrayed him.
Silence. Emerald eyes widened in panic. Nina snatched a textbook, buried her nose in it—*pretend nothing happened.* Gregory fumbled for an excuse, grabbing a tattered manual from the shelf.
“Ah—here it is!” he declared, flipping pages blindly, scrambling for conversation. The words blurred. Silence yawned between them. Nina sat stone-still, praying he wouldn’t mention the singing.
“Nina, you must be exhausted,” he burst out. “Why haven’t you gone home?”
“I—I’m about to,” she muttered.
“Tell me,” he blundered on, “why a geology college? An unusual choice for a girl, don’t you think?”
“There wasn’t another,” she said, baffled.
“What about culinary school?” The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Her eyes flashed. “*Culinary*?” She caught herself, voice cooling. “There wasn’t a *proper* alternative.”
“Not interested in cooking?”
“No.” She stiffened over her geology textbook. “I can cook fine already.”
“Commendable, commendable. Perhaps music school?” *Recover. Recover.* “You have a remarkable voice.”
“They didn’t take me.” Her face fell.
“*Didn’t take you?* Impossible. Were the judges *deaf*?”
She slammed the book shut. “Excuse me—I have to go.”
And she was gone.
Gregory stood, bewildered. Had he upset her? Pushed too far? Worse—had she guessed his interest wasn’t professional at all? He cursed himself. Now, he’d have to tread even more carefully.
***
Gregory grew obsessed with the college choir. He *knew* Nina sang—why wasn’t she part of it? He approached the choir director, feigning interest in a New Year’s performance—his group wanted to prepare a song. And, he hinted, they had a “golden voice” among them.
The director, Mrs. Fairchild, was puzzled. No one from his group had ever joined the choir.
“What about Nina Collins?” he pressed.
“She never auditioned. Bring her in—let’s hear her.”
***
Something wasn’t right. Nina claimed she’d been rejected by music school—yet her voice was extraordinary. She sang alone, avoiding the choir. Gregory finally cornered Lucy, Nina’s confidante.
“You *really* don’t know?” Lucy whispered. “Nina’s nearly deaf.”
Gregory’s heart lurched. *Deaf?*
“One ear’s completely gone. The other—just a sliver,” Lucy said pityingly.
“But—we’ve *talked*. She *sings*.”
“She reads lips. Watch—she’s always looking at your mouth.”
Suddenly, it made sense—why those emerald eyes fixed on him during lectures. Why she’d been rejected. And his idiotic remark about “deaf judges”—God, what had he *done*?
Desperation sparked a plan. He returned to Mrs. Fairchild, explaining Nina’s situation. If Nina could still hear enough to sing, the choir would take her.
But luring Nina alone was impossible—so Gregory rallied the entire class to rehearse *Moscow Nights*, that year’s anthem.
Ironically, Nina’s partial deafness made her sing louder—and at last, her voice soared, undeniable. Gregory’s heart swelled as she smiled during rehearsals, then onstage. This was his quiet victory.
***
When Nina graduated—top of her class—Gregory finally confessed. Not that she hadn’t already guessed. Lips weren’t the only thing she could read.
They married a year later.
And the years between them?
In the end, numbers mattered only in equations—never in love.
