While I start writing on the latter and taking out my papers from my briefcase, Andrew’s sitting on one of the first chairs, slightly away from the others, impeccably recognizable with his white shirt and black glasses. He’s resting on his elbows, waiting. Interested. His eyes are dark, even darker than usual, and are my hands trembling? The corners of the papers shake just enough to make me panic a little.

  I take a deep breath, wait for the room to quiet and start my lesson.

  “Can someone give me the definition of,” pencil in hand, I write the word on the board. “the immune system?”

  Andrew raises his hand. The students laugh and some start to whisper and chuckle as they just realized the presence of another professor in the room. Another Professor Miller. The only other Professor Miller. “Someone under the age of thirty, please.”

  Some more laughter. Even my nemesis gives me a smile that reaches his eyes. And it might be the first one he gives to me. And I’m not going to acknowledge my reaction to it during a lesson.

  “The immune system is our body’s defense mechanism. It protects us from viruses, bacteria, fungi, and diseases.” A girl answers. I think her name is Victoria. She was already one of my students last year.

  “Always?”

  “No. Immunodeficiency can happen when the system fails, from internal or external factors. It leads to higher risks of infections and even cancers.” She continues.

  My eyes purposefully avoid Andrew’s spot but even in my peripheral vision, his movements are evident, suffocating. His presence is heavy on my shoulders and I should’ve said

  It’s probable he can see how stressful this is for me. Maybe he smells my fear through my sweat. Maybe he’s not just watching clues, he’s also a damn alien. Or a sniffing dog. A pig searching for truffles.

  As I grab my papers and sit on the edge of my desk, I decide he doesn’t exist. I focus on the students in front of me, on the course I want to share and on the subject that is obviously very important to me. “Thank you. There are two types of Immunodeficiency disorders; primary and secondary.”

  “Primary Immunodeficiency Disorders or Primary Immunodeficiency, also called PIs, concerns children under the age of one, for the majority, and depends on genetic disorder, which means it was not caused by other diseases, drug treatment, or environmental exposure. Contrary to, you’ve guessed it, the Secondary Immunodeficiency Disorders, such as AIDS, which is a virus dismantling the immune system by targeting CD4+ T cells.”

  They all start writing but Andrew is still focused on me. I don’t watch. “What I wanted to talk to you about today is; Immunotherapy.”

  I know it’s a little bit off the program but that’s my domain of expertise. The latter has really been ground breaking in the development of a cure to cancer. When the latter is still in research state, much more funds have been unlocked to improve the solutions that we had for a while. Immunotherapy also raises questions among the field because of how it can sometimes endanger a patient rather than really saving his life. Although being certain of a teaching position at Tufts University, Medford, I really should have gone to Boston for the School of Medicine there. But again, Isabella confirmed my use here. Smoothed the edges. Assured the classes would fade and the lab would appear.

  “It has an interdisciplinary nature, as it combines immunology, genetics, molecular biology and biotechnology to treat complex diseases. It works by enhancing the immune system’s ability to recognize and eliminate cancer cells. Does one of you know some of the techniques employed?”

  I almost expect Andrew to raise his hand again but he seems completely absorbed by the lesson. He blinks a few times, like he has gone off way too far in his head and turns around the students, as we both wait for an answer. Victoria speaks again. “I’ve heard of CAR-T cells?” I’m impressed with her answers. She must have gone with research on her own time.

  “Do you know what CAR stands for?” I query but she shakes her head. “Chimeric Antigen Receptor.” My hand moves fast on the board. “This strategy is truly revolutionary, especially for treating certain leukemia affecting children mostly. The idea is to sample T lymphocytes of the patient’s body and implement the genetic modification of the CAR gene. When enough lymphocytes have been multiplied with the modified gene, it is reimplanted back inside the patient’s system. The goal is to reactivate the immune system in doing what it’s supposed to do in the first place.”

  “But wouldn’t the system still be defensive against any other cells?” a student asks.

  “Before the transplant, the patient has to go through chemotherapy in order to weaken the system. For three days.”

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  “And is it always successful?” Andrew intervenes. One of his hands holds his chin but not in a way that would translate his boredom. More as a truly invested and committed gesture.

  “It definitely lowers the risk of rejection, yes.”

  I see mischief dancing in his eyes and I wonder where this is going. “So, it’s a gamble really. It hasn’t been completely approved, right?”

  “In the matter of approval, this technique has shown great numbers since it has started to be tested.”

  “Would you say that the new cells are the immune system into thinking they are the good guys?” Now, I see where this is going. Students laugh and we are again doing our (maybe?) famous back and forth. Before I can speak, he continues. “Would you say that this discipline relies on understanding the underlying silent biochemical of the immune system?”

  “I would say that it has been checked and developed enough to actually see the results we need. Considering the number of patients with positive outcomes from the said therapy, it surely proves its effectiveness.”

  He nods with his fingers on his mouth, but finally quiets. His whole face displays amusement. His feet are perfectly arranged under the table, his hair effortlessly combed. His gaze courses and me and I can feel the heat radiating out of me. My ears are burning and the top of my cheeks as well. I hate that I’m blushing in front of my students and in front of him. “Its success does require much work, as it is mandatory to detect the subtle biological markers and patterns, such as mutations, tumor antigens, or immune system dysfunction after a transplant. The treatment needs to be tailored for the patient. And the latter response has to be thoroughly monitored, his reactions cautiously surveilled.”

  Andrew’s voice rises again. “You mean watching the patient for any clues on how well he’s accepting the transplant is absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes.” I groan. “Except, we, in medicine, have created machines that could evaluate aspects we couldn’t, as humans.”

  “What about symptoms that cannot be numbered?”

  He’s asking the question without really hoping for an answer. He’s just throwing them out there, in the wild, to make me realize what I’ve been missing through his lecture the other time. This won’t suffice to change my mind. Medicine is a science and synergology isn’t. “Doctors care about patients enough to check data and facts just as much as their movements, their pain, what they complain about. If someone is having a stroke, I would recognize it. If someone is about to faint, I’ll be able to prevent it. If I’m witnessing a heart attack, I can react the proper way.”

  “And what do you do to recognize which is which? What do you search for? What do you watch? Where do you think all of this is coming from?”

  The students have stopped writing. The flickering light is the only sound we hear for multiple seconds, and also probably my heavy breathing. Andrew is still smiling. Although his expression is very different. He’s sad that he had to display such humiliation for me to see his field through divergent lenses. Since I refused to listen to him while we were in the intimacy of our solitude, he had to make a better statement.

  Not that it worked. Besides ruining my fucking lesson, he only made me even more furious. I’m torn between slapping him in the face and pinning him onto the wall right next to him.

  Instead, I drop my papers and dismiss my class. “That’ll be all.”

  They all watch each other with round eyes and open mouths. I can hear their whispers.

  Eventually, they leave the room and the last one closes the door. Andrew watches the latter, as if he finally understood the fact that he’s alone with me again, and that I must resemble a bull looking at a red cloth right now.

  He’s still seated and I didn’t move an inch. My knuckles are blanching from how hard I hold the edge of the desk. After a few seconds, he sighs and buries his face on his stretched arms on the table. “You’re angry.”

  “Angry? Angry’s too soft, Andrew.”

  He shivers. Why? Is he afraid of me? Afraid I’ll harm him? Of course, I’ll throw away my very thin chance of having the job that I desperately want by bashing the skull of a fellow professor against where his head is currently laying. The violence inside is just a manifestation of whatever he manages to stir in me. “You did ask me to assist one of your classes.” He whines and finally stands up in time to see me approaching him. His eyes are round but his dark brown irises succeed in melting some of the shards of ice that appeared in my heart.

  “Assist. Not disturb. Or interrupt. Or .” I hiss. His shoulders slump a little. Like he’s feeling defeated. I should feel like that. I should be the one annoyed. What is he even trying to do? Why does he need me to understand his damn non-science so much?

  “I’m sorry. I tend to be like that.”

  “Insufferable?”

  “I meant talkative.”

  How can I still find him charming? This is infuriating. He handsome. In an indubitable way. “This has to stop. I don’t want your help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t need it. I don’t need you.” I don’t need anyone, really. Well, I love my sister and mother, and father also, despite being the pain that he is. But I’ve learnt to be on my own very early on. Because it has become essential that I know how to function without anyone. Because, at the end of the day, it was me, myself and I in my apartment, in my bed, and in my soul.

  “That’s right, you’re a big guy and you don’t need anybody,” he says while letting his hand graze above my sternum. The warmth spreads all over my abdomen and my body freezes from the sudden touch. It’s evident that he can feel how my breathing just became ragged. I want to cut the contact but my limbs decided to just stop listening to my orders. He looks at me attentively. Waiting. Until I realize I cornered him. And his hand is just here to push me out.

  I take three steps back. He touches his fingers while mindlessly watching me. His lips slightly parted. “I don’t want your help,” I repeat. He gulps. Then huffs. And scratches the back of his neck.

  “We’ll see.” He answers. And leave the room as well.