Obsession

As I walked across the stage, my eyes scanned the Great Hall. Amongst the dim light off-stage, I observed a sea of cheerful faces. Friends, parents and relatives of these excited university graduates sat around me, with their cameras flashing proudly. Ironic really, that we had to wear attire consisting entirely of black, on one of the happiest day of our lives. I adjusted the unfamiliar headwear and was caught off-guard when my name was called. “Ashlie Ramsay.”

After my hand was shaken, I descended the stairs down from the stage and made my way to my seat. At a glance, my eyes met his. A surge of buried emotions started to resurface. In that split second, my mind froze. Feeling tense, I settled down in between my parents and my memories pulled me back to that day when it all started.

*

“Welcome everyone. I will be teaching you all second year chemistry for this academic year,” said Professor Mandal. His eyes swept the lecture theatre and met with mine. I was sitting at the back of the room; a whole row to myself. For a single moment, I felt as though he could see right into the back of my mind. His eyes were dark, intelligent and imposing. Paranoia washed with embarrassment and inferiority crept into my cheeks in the form of a deep red blush. My heart thudded, an ocean of adrenaline raced past my ears so loudly that I swear he could hear it. For the remainder of the chemistry lecture, I scrutinized him intently, and wondered if he was aware of the effect that he had on me.

A couple of hours after the lecture, I sat at my laptop in my room, hyped up on heavy metal. I hadn’t done any work. My chemistry seminar work was sitting abandoned on the desk in front of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it. My mind was totally absorbed by Professor Mandal. God, why did he have to be so able to dominate all my thoughts? I had already Googled his name with as many things related to him as possible. He was thirty-three, had lived in West Bengal, eastern India, until he was four and moved to England, where he had since stayed. He didn’t use Facebook, or any other social networking websites. Damn. He was also married, with two children. I had search-engined images of him and saved them in a folder on my laptop. I laid in bed that night, wondering what excuse I could use to speak to him face-to-face.

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I’ve never been infatuated before. My older sister used to say to me when I was young, that when I eventually do experience infatuation, I’ll feel as though I’m in love. But “love and infatuation are different”, she used to tell me. “Love is blind, but infatuation is blinder. Love is caring, infatuation is selfish.” I trusted her instinct that I would feel infatuation one day. Little did she know that there was a third category she neglected to mention. And that was obsession.

“Dear all,

Someone has left a large red notebook in Chemistry Lecture Theatre 21 at 2pm. ...

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