Chris Everard is an English teacher who was fresh out of university. You could tell he was based on the occasional spot of acne and the sloppy ties he would put on everyday, except Friday, because Friday was Casual Day for teachers.

He was roughly 5’8” and his posture was never straight. Indeed he slumped when he walked every now and then, but seeing his hunched back once in a blue moon was almost a relief. Mr. Everard wasn’t strict, but he wasn’t lenient either. If anything, he was new to us, and we were new to him.

He tells us that the last school he was teaching at wasn’t all that great. They always seemed to have some sort of chip on their shoulder. Then he explains that he likes it here because everyone’s nice and friendly. Although personally, I don’t believe this school is anywhere near friendly. To me, this entire town was fake. It’s from my own personal experience that I claim it to be a place of false lifestyle. I never felt safe here.

However, I felt a little comfortable while being in his classroom, listening to him speak. Anything that came out of his mouth was pleasant to hear. He was humorous and he had character. Above all, he was charismatic.

When our small class had nothing to do, we would talk about random things that came to mind. During the discussions, we found out that he was single, he was 22 and he loved Oprah. All this was brought up in playfulness, of course.

My dry humor and harsh sarcasm must’ve got things off on the wrong foot, though…

It’s a few months into the school year, and I have no idea what Mr. Everard thinks of me, but I know well enough he’s not as fond as me as he could be. They ask me something, I give an honest reply, and then they ask if I’m being serious or sarcastic. It’s offensive, but I don’t act offended. Instead, I tell myself to change my ways. It was then that I decided to drop all my bad happens, stop seeing my bad-influential friends. Start handing things in on time, stop everything illegal and just do by best to be good.

Then I thought, “Maybe if I’m good, I’ll be his favorite.” And that’s when I realized my feelings for him, and I realized how serious this all suddenly became.

He could lose his job; he could lose his entire career, everything he went to college for. Then we wouldn’t be friends any longer, he wouldn’t be my teacher and all my sudden hope for a mature relationship would be thrown out the window.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. I couldn’t bare it, alone or not. I couldn’t stand it because I knew exactly what he thought about teacher-student relations. He didn’t agree with them, and subconsciously an idea started to form. I made a five-year plan that consisted of friendly banter and the likes. We’d talk about English, or maybe talk about anything. Maybe he’d invite me into his ring of friends, introduce me to his mother.

Then came the spiral, and things came down hill. Realization settled in, the real realization, and I understood that trying to force this to happen wasn’t right. I understood now that there should be no hurry to get into any relationship, especially with a teacher.

I came to accept the fact that Mr. Everard would never love me more than his wrist swatch. He would never love me more than singing in the shower. He will never love me more than his Mac computer. He will never love me more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He will never love me more than street musicians. He will never love me more than teaching.

He will never love me more than anything.