Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Love can be a many splendored thing
Can't deny the joy it brings
A dozen roses, diamond rings
Dreams for sale and fairy tales
It'll make you hear a symphony
And you just want the world to see
But like a drug that makes you blind
It'll fool ya every time  

Chapter Text

Max Medina slowly stirred his cold coffee while listening to the soft music on the radio. He sighed. The summer break was over, and the new term at Stanford University would start tomorrow. His first class was at eight a.m., and he definitely wasn't ready. At Chilton, he had been known as the students' favorite teacher, always happy; demanding but friendly. Max knew for sure that none of the students he taught last year would share this opinion. He was tired, exhausted, and heartbroken – the walking cliché of someone who had, almost literally, been stood up at the altar. Max felt as if he lacked any kind of purpose in life.

Things with Diane hadn't worked out, and somewhere deep inside of him he had known that right from the start, because, well, he had still been in love with her. He had loved Lorelai Gilmore, more than anything. She had been the one woman he wanted to marry. He would have given her everything, he would have been a father to Rory and spent his whole life with them. But it wasn't meant to be. Lorelai didn't really love him, and he knew that it would have been a mistake to restart their relationship. She never would have been truly happy with him, and he needed her to be happy. More than he needed himself to be happy, apparently. Max knew that he shouldn't give up, that he had grieved too long and had let himself go. But up to now he just hadn't been able to regain hold. His job at Stanford had been the only thing to keep him alive, but teaching was no longer a pleasure for Max. Everything had become so difficult.

Max sighed again. The diner he sat in was almost empty now, he had to leave soon to prepare something for tomorrow and to get some sleep. The first chords of the next song on the radio reached his ears, and Max immediately recognized the tune.

He had always liked that song, but at this point it just made him sad. In the lyrics, the guy hadn't treated his girlfriend well or given her the attention she deserved. And now that she had left, he regretted what he did or did not do. It was his fault that he was alone now, and he knew it. But Max hadn't made these kinds of mistakes. He had spent all of his time with Lorelai, he had held her hand and bought her a thousand yellow daisies. Still, it hadn't worked out, even though he had done his best. And Max was in despair precisely because he couldn't really blame himself, he couldn't apologize and try to put things straight. It was over, and it was nobody's fault. It was just over, but he couldn't move on.  

"That's a beautiful song, isn't it?," a female voice asked. Max slowly looked up and saw that the person who had spoken was actually looking at him. It was a young woman with red curls and freckles all over her face. She was sitting a few stools away at the bar, and in front of her on the counter lay a notepad and a few pencils. Her smile was warm and her voice was friendly, and even though she had surprised him, Max was glad about the diversion.

"It is." Max smiled as well, if only faintly. He looked at her more closely, taking in her green cord dungarees and the way a few of her curls had fallen out of her untidy bun. She had a creative flair, probably also because of the fact that she was sitting alone in a diner with pen and paper at this time of the day. He vaguely pointed at the woman's supplies. "Are you… writing?"

She looked down and blushed. Max watched her, intrigued by her manner. "No, I… I'm drawing, actually." She looked up again, still with a rosy tint on her freckled cheeks.

"Oh." He thought about what else to say when the woman picked up the piece of paper in front of her and walked over to hand it to him. She then sat down on the nearest barstool, waiting.

Max looked at the drawing in his hands. It was a monochrome picture, the woman had used only one pencil on the white paper, most likely charcoal. The subject was a man sitting somewhere and looking down at a cup in his hands; it was a side view and you could only see the man's upper body and his profile. The whole drawing was really well done. It had a somewhat dramatic effect, because it wasn't a detailed sketch but the strokes were chaotic and you could only make out the person if you held the drawing at arm’s length. After having studied it for some time, the man's features somehow began to feel oddly familiar…

"That's me," Max stated matter-of-factly. The woman didn't say anything, but her silence told him that he was right. After this realization, Max saw the drawing in a different light. The man in its center looked - to put it mildly - absolutely awful.

Max glanced back at the artist. "Do I really look that terrible?" His question sounded much more distressed than he had intended it to.

The woman smiled, sympathetically. "You look a little tired. But I definitely exaggerated." She paused. "Do you… like it? I mean, despite… you know." The look on her face suggested that she was genuinely interested in Max's opinion.

"Yeah, it's… great." She laughed. "No honestly, it’s really well done. As far as I can judge, at least."

She looked at her drawing and then back at him. "Everybody can judge art, in my opinion. And every judgement is correct because we all see something different while looking at the same picture."

Max smiled, slowly nodding. "Are you a professional artist?"

She chuckled again. "Oh no! I just sell my drawings to earn some extra money. It's great to get paid for something you love to do, even though I don’t make much, obviously. And I'm always kinda sad about giving away my artwork."

"Makes perfect sense," Max answered. "But, if you don't mind me asking, what do you do, then?" He had first assumed that she was a writer, and was curious about what her job might be.

"I'm going to be an English teacher soon," the woman said with an excited smile. "I just love language and literature and the whole shebang, really."

That was a surprise. "I'm teaching English as well! With a focus on literature, in fact."

The redhead beamed at him. "Oh my god, that's awesome! You need to tell me everything about your job! I love talking to kindred spirits."

Her enthusiasm caught Max a little off-guard, and her childlike excitement painfully reminded him of Rory for a second. She had also always been so zealous. Over-zealous, some might say, but he had appreciated it. And he missed her. She had been the epitome of a perfect daughter to him.

"Everything alright?," the woman asked, her smile replaced with a concerned expression. "I didn't want to annoy you, I’m sorry if-"

"No! No, it's alright," Max insisted, trying to shake off the thoughts his mind kept automatically wandering to. "You just reminded me of a former student of mine."

He looked up and tried to force his smile to return. He didn't want this conversation to end, the young woman seemed genuinely kind and interested in what he had to tell her about teaching. And he hadn't thought about Lorelai for the last fifteen minutes, which was definitely a record.

"I… I enjoy talking to kindred spirits as well. But let's start with you. Who's your favorite author, to begin with?" Max was not in the mood for talking about himself, but he was willing to learn something about her.

"Have a guess!," she prompted, having regained her grin, and Max was glad about her trying to bring back the lightheartedness from earlier.

He took a moment to think. "Hm… I think that Jane Austen would fit you, but then again that’s probably a little too mainstream…"

"Wow, that's a really good guess! English author, nineteenth century, … mine lived a little later than Austen, but apart from that… seems like I’m an open book to you."

Max smiled. "Okay, maybe… one of the Brontë sisters? Or George Eliot?"

"The period is correct now, but you still have to find the right name." Max actually began to be infected by the fun she had with this small game. It was the most fun than Max had had in ages.

"Oh, I think I know!," Max exclaimed. "Thomas Hardy!"

"No, not really. You were quite right guessing that it’s a female author. Also, I always feel like his stories are a bit excessive. Like the poems, though."

Max chuckled slightly because she did have a point. "Soo… it's neither Charles Dickens nor William Thackeray… to be honest, I'm really running out of ideas."

The woman smiled at his somewhat helpless expression. "I'll tell you the name of the protagonist of my favorite book, but this is the only hint you'll get."

"Alright." Max straightened himself, feeling like his reputation as an English teacher was being put to the test.

She smirked at him and slowly said: "Margaret Hale."

Max was a little relieved but tried not to show it. "The book is North and South then, so I conclude that your favorite author is Elizabeth Gaskell."

"Correct!" The woman grinned. "What do you think?"

He looked at her for a second before he understood her question. "Oh, about your choice? It's a good pick, I think. Gaskell is a nice compromise between Austen's romantic idyll and Dickens's bleak realism. But I prefer Charlotte Brontë myself."

She nodded. "That's exactly why I like Gaskell. But I also really enjoyed reading The Professor."

"The Professor?," Max exclaimed. Most people read Jane Eyre at most (and rightfully had mixed reactions to it), and he was surprised that she mentioned one of Charlotte Brontë’s lesser-known novels.

"Yeah. It was interesting to learn what being a teacher meant back then, and in general I like reading the less popular books of an author as well, helps me understand them better." She shrugged.

"That's a good approach. I'm sure that you are an excellent teacher."

"I hope so," she answered, blushing again. "Thanks."

He opened his mouth to reply when the barista walked up to them behind the counter, cleaning rag in hand. "Sorry, but we're closing."

Max looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. Time had really flown by and he hadn't even noticed that the diner was completely empty except for the two of them.

"Of course!," he said apologetically and got up. While the woman gathered up her art supplies, he paid the bill for both of them. She thanked him, giving him a shy smile.  

He noticed that she had left her drawing on the counter. "Don't forget this!"

She looked at him and then at her artwork. "Oh… right," she muttered and hesitantly picked it up.

They left the diner side by side in silence, not knowing what to say. As they stepped out, they were promptly met with a chilly wind. It was a cloudless, moonlit night that announced the approaching fall. The woman shivered and crossed her arms. They stopped walking and turned towards each other in the middle of the almost empty parking lot.

"I hope-," Max began after they had both been silent for a moment.

"You know…," the woman said in the same second, and they both stopped. Max made an inviting gesture, indicating that it was her turn to talk.

She smiled and repeated: "You know, I think you should keep this." She held the drawing out to him. 

"Are you sure?" Max was skeptical. "Maybe you could still sell it."

"No, I want you to take it," she said resolutely and gave him the piece of paper. "I don't think anyone would buy this, anyway, it looks far too sad."

Max looked up from the drawing, but noticed the twinkle in her eye and smiled.

"What's your name, by the way?", she asked.

"It's Max. Yours?"

"Samantha, but most people call me Sam."

"Alright, Sam. I… hope we run into each other again." While saying it out loud, May realized that he truly meant it.

Sam looked at him kindly. "I hope so, too, Max."

They said goodbye to each other, and as Max walked up to his car through the fresh night air, his thoughts only revolved around the red-haired woman. This had been the most comfortable and pleasant hour of his whole year. Samantha was obviously an interesting person, and her whole behavior and character differed enough from Lorelai's that she didn't remind him of her at all, but had managed to distract him from his feelings for an extraordinary long time. It was nice to talk to someone about the books he liked. It was nice that someone was showing interest in his work and his opinions, and paying attention to his reactions. It was nice to get infected and inspired by someone’s enthusiasm. It was nice to get to know someone new. Max opened the car door and sighed. This couldn't be true, this couldn't actually be happening. It just seemed too easy. It seemed like he didn’t deserve this. Max slumped in the driver's seat and leaned back, closing his eyes and sighing again. Great. He felt happy for a moment, and then he sabotaged himself by trying to repress that feeling immediately. Not that this could really change anything. Max knew that it would be foolish to think that he could get over Lorelai just like that. It was highly probable that tomorrow, everything would be how it had been when he had entered the diner. And after all, it pretty unlikely that he would see Sam again, anyway.

Max opened his eyes again and once more studied the drawing in his hands. He really looked awful, but Sam had somehow managed to make him look sort of beautiful as well. She was really talented. For some reason, Max couldn't tell whether it was instinct or coincidence, he flipped the piece of paper over, only to discover that Sam had scribbled her number on the back side. A faint smile spread on his face. Maybe he would meet her again. Maybe he was allowed to be happy.

When Max arrived at his apartment, it was already very late, but he still managed to prepare something for his class the next day. He didn't feel as sad or exhausted as he usually did after a long day. This evening’s encounter had led to a state of inner calmness that was incredibly soothing for him. That night, Max slept soundly for the first time in what felt like ages.

Chapter Text

The jarring sound of his alarm clock jerked Max out of his slumber. He rarely needed it to wake up, usually relying on the first rays of dawn to free him from a restless night.

He groaned, sitting up in bed and running both hands over his face. The sound sleep of the last night didn't make him feel as well rested as he would have hoped for in order to tackle the day at hand. Max feared that the start of the term would be incredibly exhausting, the getting to know all the new colleagues and students, the smiling and the chatting all day long, as if there wasn't this smoldering feeling of emptiness inside of him that threatened to swallow him whole.

It was his sixth quarter teaching at Stanford. After he had first taught a class here and then returned to Chilton again, he had quickly realized that coming back to the East Coast had been a mistake - for obvious reasons. To distance himself again, from his own feelings and from the woman who had awakened them in him, he came back to Stanford last summer. Now it was late September again, and the new academic year began today as the world outside bid summer goodbye and the leaves slowly took on colorful shades, glowing in the yellow sunlight, before they would descend to the ground and only leave gloomy skeleton trees behind. 

As he dragged himself out of bed, Max's gaze settled on his desk, where the drawing from yesterday lay right next to his lesson plans and paperwork. Yesterday. There had been this woman. Sam. At the diner. His favorite diner. She had suddenly appeared like a whirlwind and had taken his mind of things for a while. It had been a very pleasant distraction, but with a deep breath, Max realized that his newfound feeling of calmness had indeed not made it through the night. Instead, he once more felt just the way the drawing looked: simply awful. Not that the drawing was awful, he still thought it was quite amazingly done, but it artfully captured that he was - as the youths say - straight-up not having a good time right now.

Max would never have thought that getting over a woman could be that difficult. Lorelai wasn't just any woman, of course. She was witty, and beautiful, and kind, and - he couldn't help but break into a smile, which was immediately followed by a pang in his heart, reminding him that she was, in fact, gone, and that he would never see her again. To be frank, he didn't actually want to see her again, which he had made painfully clear the last time they had seen each other. What he wanted again, instead, was this feeling of true happiness that he had felt with her, and that she seemed to have taken with her never to return. Max had tried to find his inner equilibrium again, and he had thought that he had managed to get over her, but when he saw her again… He knew that he couldn't be with her, felt it in his heart that she didn't, couldn't love him, was aware that picking up where they left off would have led to the same result as before: Her leaving him a voicemail to tell him she wasn't ready, her breaking his heart over and over again. But somehow, her standing right in front of him again had made things so much worse, and Max had begun to grow afraid of the prospect of not being able to feel this special kind of happiness - or any kind, really - ever again. Even returning to a state of tranquility or content seemed pretty impossible. He simply couldn't make his way out of this abyss of spiraling thoughts, and anxiety, and knowing he didn't want her back but still not being able to let her go.

Making his way into the kitchen, Max turned on his coffee machine and sat down at his bleak kitchen table. The apartment he lived in since last summer still lacked any kind of personal touch, except for his books, of course. He had yet to find the energy to unpack the boxes with the unimportant stuff - his prints and sculptures, the models of sailing ships, the vintage globe, his diploma. They had been up in his last Stanford apartment, contrasting with Diane's flowery decorations. Diane, lovely Diane, who had deserved someone that actually paid attention to her and wasn't still pining for a lost lover, had come and gone just like her little trinkets and the flowers she would buy herself every Friday because he never did. As if he had used up all of his flower buying abilities with those thousand yellow daisies. He didn't want to think about it. That was the thing, actually. Max simply didn't want to think about Lorelai all the time anymore (or about Diane, for that matter). He wanted that whole episode of his life to just be deleted from his mind forever. He wanted her to get out of his head, so that he could move on. But clearly, that was impossible. Every little thing kept reminding him of her, kept taunting him with the memory of feelings of love and happiness that were so utterly unattainable right now.

While staring at his kitchen wall and waiting for his coffee, Max started humming the tune of a sad indie song he had heard a while ago, sung by a lonely street musician near university.

The loud thoughtless drunk's song
Makes me open my eyes
And I watch you breathing
In our bed where you lie
You say we should walk when it calls
Just move on don't stop, or you fall
Please stay
Please stay

I pour a coffee
Sit down on your chair
This new silence kills me
Were you ever there
We were so long together
It's all that I know
I love you so fully
I just can't let you know
You say we should walk when it calls
Just move on don't stop, or you fall
Please stay
Please stay

When the lights seemed to dim
When the day wouldn't let me walk in
I had someone
When the books that you read
Needed sharin', there was a room and our bed
You had someone
We had someone
I know you, just a kiss as you walk away

When the lights seemed to dim
When the day wouldn't let me walk in
I had someone
You had someone
Please stay

(Please Stay ~ Beecake)

Max shook his head, trying to rid himself of the lyrics. His heart said "please stay", his head said "please leave", and their conflict just made him lose his mind. The coffee was done. Finally holding a cup of the hot black brew in his hands, he let himself be hugged by its warmth and comforted by its taste. Not that it didn't also remind him of the biggest coffee addict he'd ever met. But Max had always loved coffee - even though he wasn't very good at making it - and that was a remnant from the time before Lorelai, and the kind of small thing that sometimes helped him imagine that a time after, a return to the normal, was possible.

He thought of yesterday's coffee at the diner, and of the young woman with the red curls who had been so kind to him and chatted with him so animatedly. That had also been one of those rare moments in which he felt like himself again, in which he was reminded that he had once felt enthusiasm for things like literature and art and for his job, and that he had once been able to simply flirt with a stranger at a café without being reminded of the woman whom he had met in similar way and whom he had given all of his love and happiness until there was nothing left inside of him.

The artist had left her number on the drawing, he remembered now. For a desperate moment, he actually considered getting his phone and texting her. Just because the idea of even feeling any kind of interest in another woman thrilled him, just to be able to experience another moment like yesterday’s in which he could live in the present and simply forget the past. But Max hesitated. He didn't want to repeat the mistakes he made with Diane, using someone as a distraction to get over his personal troubles, while not being able to pay them the attention they deserved. Especially someone like Samantha, so vibrant and caring. Max felt that he shouldn't allow a woman as sunny as her to be engulfed by his shadows.

He sighed, looking at his watch. It was time to get ready for the first class of the term. Taking his last sip of coffee, Max braced himself for the day ahead.

Chapter Text

For the short drive to university, Max turned on the car radio. The local station was playing an hour of oldies every morning - songs that his parents had liked when he was a child, and that they still occasionally listened to when he visited them on the East Coast. Thinking about them made him happy and sad at the same time. Max had had a very sheltered childhood; growing up with two younger brothers was loud but fun, and his parents had always been loving and supportive. Even though his father would have liked him to become a doctor, and his mother was sure he would be the next president, they never tried to stop him from pursuing his dreams, eventually accepting that teaching was what he really wanted to do. Although they were definitely glad he didn't decide to become a clown after all.

But growing up in such a perfect world had left him under the illusion that life would always be easy, and that at some point, he would be the one to have a wife and three children and a house with a garden in the suburbs. But life wasn't easy. You didn't always get what you wanted, and sometimes, you didn't even know what you actually wanted. Max had always felt that there was something missing, like he hadn't quite found his place in the world yet. Even during these perfect childhood days.

On the radio, the last chords of Scott McKenzie's "San Francisco" where softly fading away, and the next song began. It seemed like the station had decided on only California-related oldies today, because Max recognized the tune immediately. It was "California Dreamin'", a song he had adored when he was young, because it was so strangely bittersweet. Made famous by The Mamas & the Papas, it was composed by band members John and Michelle Phillips, and John Phillips had actually also written "San Francisco" for McKenzie. Max sighed. This was the kind of moment that made him realize how lonely he was, because he just wanted someone sitting there one the passenger seat whom he could tell his useless music facts to. It turned up the volume a bit, letting the soft harmonies encompass him.

All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown)
And the sky is gray (and the sky is gray)
I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk)
On a winter's day (on a winter's day)
I'd be safe and warm (I'd be safe and warm)
If I was in L.A. (if I was in L.A.)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')
On such a winter's day

Stopped into a church
I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)
And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)
You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold)
He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')
On such a winter's day

All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown)
And the sky is gray (and the sky is gray)
I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk)
On a winter's day (on a winter's day)
If I didn't tell her (if I didn't tell her)
I could leave today (I could leave today)

California dreamin' (California dreamin')
On such a winter's day (California dreamin')
On such a winter's day (California dreamin')
On such a winter's day

(California Dreamin' ~ The Mamas & the Papas)

The song captured perfectly how Max had felt growing up on the East Coast, and even while teaching at Chilton. Back then, while looking out of the window at the falling leaves and sensing that a rough winter was coming, he had dreamt of something more, something exciting, someplace warm and sunny where something better was waiting for him. Which one could find in California, apparently, if The Mamas & the Papas were right. So, when he and Lorelai had been on a break and he had finally gotten the opportunity to teach at Stanford, Max had thought that that was it. The moment when he would finally feel like he fully belonged somewhere, like he was truly living life. But this feeling that he was chasing had never set in. If anything, he had felt it with Lorelai, but at this point he didn't even know if being with her had actually been the perfect life for him or if he had just really wanted it to be. After all, it had not been perfect for Lorelai. And now, Max was in California again, and he felt like even though Stanford was the best place for him to be at the moment, he didn't really belong here, either.

But, to be fair, The Mamas & the Papas were also only dreaming. Maybe actually going to California would have disillusioned them as well. When Max heard the first chords of Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains in Southern California" on the radio, he turned it off. Gimme a break all right.

Max Medina was late for class. His whole life, and especially during his eleven years of teaching, he had been a very punctual person. And he had been very meticulous about his students always arriving at the classroom on time, insisting that if they were late, they wouldn’t be able to participate. He painfully remembered how this led to quite a dispute with Lorelai after he didn’t allow Rory to take a test due to her tardiness. A dispute that admittedly sparked his interest in the vivacious woman.

But this past year, Max had started not be the type of teacher anymore who arrived at the lecture hall thirty minutes early, and prepared his lesson, waited patiently for the students to arrive, and answered the questions of a few eager early birds. Instead, he made it to class just in time, sometimes with a coffee to go in hand, prioritizing the little comfort he could find and all of the sleep he could get, and simply not having the energy anymore to be disciplined all of the time. To be happy and put-together and perfect all of the time – or at all. Accordingly, he also stopped to berate his students. Who knew what they had going on in their lives that made them a few minutes late? He was glad that they even showed up in the first place.

But today, Max was really late. He had slept so unusually well that it had messed up his morning routine, then he had stared at his kitchen wall just a moment too long, and then traffic had been worse than usual. So now, even fetching another coffee to get him through the day wasn’t an option. At a quarter past eight, he pushed open the double door to the classroom and made a beeline for his desk, throwing only a fleeting glance at the assembled students who fell silent when he entered. Clearly, they had been wondering where he was. Max tossed his leather bag and his coat on the table.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Welcome to 'Art and Literature'."

He grabbed a piece of chalk and hurriedly wrote his name on the board. "I'm Max Medina and I teach literature at the Department of English. That's Mr. Medina to you, by the way, not Max. I know this is university and some professors like to keep it casual, but we're not friends."

With his last words, he turned around and fully faced the class for the first time, letting his gaze wander over the group of undergraduates who stared back at him, some expectant, some startled, some already bored.

When his eyes reached the front row, he froze. There, only a short distance away from his desk, he had spotted a curly red head and a soft but alarmed freckled face that were awfully familiar.

Sam.

That was Samantha, from the diner, sitting in his class with a pencil tucked behind her ear, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Which was probably what he looked like, too.

Seconds passed of Max simply staring at the girl and feeling hot and cold at the same time, painfully aware that everyone in the room was waiting for him to start the lesson. He eventually managed to tear his gaze away from her and took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together.

Well. Well, well, well. That was not ideal. Why was she even at Stanford? Was she still a student? And why out of all of the classes available at this university did she end up in his? Why was the only person who had been nice to him in the past year someone he couldn't possibly spend time with? In a matter of minutes Max felt his newfound hopes for happiness slipping away from him. Not that he had really planned on reaching out to her, anyway. But maybe he had thought that he would run into her again, at the diner, and talk to her again. Which was obviously impossible now. We’re not friends. His own words echoed inside his head, reminding him how cruel the universe could be. Fate had apparently decided that "Max Medina" and "happy" were two words that didn't belong in the same sentence, and had made sure to let him know.

Max cleared his throat and clumsily fished his papers out of his bag. "Sorry, I'm a bit under the weather today. As I was saying, I'm Mr. Medina, and this is 'Art and Literature'."

He realized that he was still looking down at his desk and decided to instead direct his opening remarks to the neon-colored emergency exit sign at the back of the lecture room, glancing at the notes he took yesterday evening every now and then.

"The goal of this class to is to help you gain an understanding of what literature and art are, what they can be, and why these subjects are taught at university in the first place. I know- I mean I assume that some of you want to become teachers or even want to establish yourselves in academia, and I think that it is necessary for you to understand what you are working with in order to be able to teach others and to begin doing your own research in this field."

"So let me start with a quote by American-British author Henry James from his 1884 essay 'The Art of Fiction'. He writes that 'art lives upon discussion, upon experiment, upon curiosity, upon variety of attempt, upon the exchange of views and the comparison of standpoints'."

He dared to glance at his students who were mostly looking down at their notebooks, probably not to take notes, or who already gazed at the colorful shades of the trees outside with an absentminded expression on their faces.

Max stopped reading from his notes. This wouldn't do. If yesterday's encounter had made him realize one thing, it was that he wanted to be enthusiastic about teaching again, and the whole purpose of this class was to make his students enthusiastic about their subject. About literature. About stories and emotions and about what it meant to make art and let art into one's life.

"Okay." Max abandoned his papers, circled his desk and stopped in front of the class, leaning back against the table.

Due to his unusual surge of motivation, he dared to look at the group of young people gathered in the room again, still avoiding Sam, but feeling her eyes on him. However, his sudden change of behavior had drawn everyone's attention to him, and he decided to make use of this.

"Listen, I don't know if you are here because you have a genuine interest in literature, or because you have to take this class, or because there is some other reason why you decided to show up in this lecture hall at eight a.m. on a Monday morning. But what matters to me is that by the end of this quarter, you don't feel like your studies of English Literature are an end in themselves, and like your only goal is to get good grades, but I want you to actually enjoy being here. I want you to think about literature because it means something to you and because you understand why it is important beyond the walls of this university."

"So, let's start by finding out why you're here. All of you saw the title of this course and decided to sign up for it. I’m sure that everyone of you has their own personal answer to the question: What is art? And I’m interested in hearing it."

Max’s gaze wandered to the front row and he couldn’t help but look at Samantha, almost afraid that she would still seem shocked, or that she wouldn’t be listening to him and his attempt at an engaging lesson at all. But when their eyes met, the trace of smile appeared on her face. Which was weirdly encouraging. Just one person making sense of his ramblings was enough for him.

"You," Max said, addressing a young man in a dark blue dress shirt who was sitting a few seats behind Sam. "What's your name?"

"Um, Mason. Mr. Ben Mason, Sir," the student answered, a little startled.

"And what would you say is your definition of art?"

"I… think art is something that people enjoy. Something that is entertaining, or beautiful, or that just makes us feel something, I guess."

"Thank you, Mr. Mason. Would everyone agree with that?" Max looked at the rest of his class and was pleased to notice that everyone actually seemed to be thinking about the question.

A student in the second row confidently raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"I disagree, actually. There is lots of art I can think of that isn't actually beautiful or enjoyable. I mean, a lot of popular stuff is, romance novels or Rupi Kaur poems or whatever. But highbrow art is much more nuanced and complex. Think of Kafka, for example. His stories aren't easy to understand and they can in fact be pretty disturbing, but he writes about the really important things in life. He actually has to say something instead of just wanting to entertain. That is real art to me." She concluded with a smug look on her face. Poor Ben was intently staring at the tabletop.

"So, would you classify, say, a play by William Shakespeare as real art according to your definition?"

"Definitely," she nodded eagerly. "I mean, there's a reason we still read his works today. They're so masterfully done and there's so much political and societal commentary in there. And it can arguably also be pretty tough to work that all out. So yes, I think anything by Shakespeare is art for sure."

Max nodded slowly, waiting to see if anyone else had something to say. When his gaze settled on Sam, again, he saw that she was timidly raising her hand, as if she wasn't sure if she was allowed to participate. It was his turn to give her an encouraging smile.

"Yes, Miss…?"

"Harding." Samantha Harding, then.

"Miss Harding, would you like to respond to that?"

"Yes." She hesitated for a moment. “I think that separating highbrow and lowbrow culture like that can be problematic. It's just very difficult to draw the line. Shakespeare is a perfect example, actually, because we think of his plays as challenging and sophisticated, but back in Early Modern London this was the main entertainment of the time. People went to the theater like we go to the cinema, and they understood what was happening on stage and they laughed and had fun. And Shakespeare himself also got a lot of inspiration from other authors and stories and probably didn't write everything we credit him with himself. So, I feel like it's difficult to label his work as either popular or elite, or as real art, but I also think that that isn't necessary in the first place."

Max nodded again, this time as a sign for her to elaborate.

"I mean, it shouldn't matter if something is popular or niche, simple or complicated. We make art because we feel an urge to make it, because we have something to say. And we consume art because we want to know what others think, and then we can agree or disagree, or enjoy it or dislike it. I think I actually agree with Ben here." The boy perked his head up. "I think that art always makes us feel something, something that others have felt before us. It's a form of communication, in the end. Even if it's just ourselves who we communicate with."

Max felt a smile spread on his face. "Thank you very much."

He turned to the class again. "As you can see, opinions on art can differ. And I will not point out with which of the definitions your three classmates kindly offered I agree with the most. Because art is something that is meant to be discussed and something that I want to discuss with you during the course of this term. Please hand in one page of your own thoughts on what art is until Friday. You can use this discussion as a starting point, and feel encouraged by the fact that I don't think there are any wrong answers to this prompt."

Max continued by going over the important organizational matters for the course and giving his students a list of assigned readings he expected them to prepare for the coming weeks. Feeling his own energy slipping away from his as suddenly as it had appeared, he decided to let them go early to make up for the time they had wasted waiting for him at the beginning of the lesson.

Everyone began today hastily gather their belongings and to engage in excited start of term-chattering, which Max knew would soon be replaced by mid of term-complaining. He slowly collected his notes and then proceeded to clean his name off the blackboard while the room emptied and the noises moved to the hallway.

When he turned around, as he had dreaded, there was but one person left in the lecture hall, lingering in front of his desk and pushing a lock of her red hair behind her ear when their eyes met.

"Look-," he began.

"Mr. Medina," she said.

Both stopped and the room fell silent again.

Max decided to speak first and to try to get this over with. "Look, Miss Harding, I am sorry if this has caused you any discomfort. I really wouldn't have talked to you yesterday if I had known that you were still a student, let alone my student." (He internally cringed at the fact that he had unknowingly given one of his students an insight into his private life, and that he had then almost texted her to... what? Ask her out on a date? This was embarrassing.) "You are welcome to switch classes and take one of my colleagues' courses instead, I'll talk to the administrative office if they give you any trouble."

"No!," Sam exclaimed, surprising Max, and apparently also herself. "No, I- I'd really like to stay, if you don't mind."

Max just shrugged. Did he mind? He wasn't sure. Her contribution today had been excellent. Surely, he would be able to get over the fact that she would be a constant reminder of his own pathetic desire for happiness.

"I just- it's very important to me that you know that I did also not know who you are. I'm in the last year of my degree, but I just transferred to Stanford with a scholarship I got, so this is literally my first day on campus. And I selected your class without knowing what you look like. I'm telling you this so that you don't think I hit on you to get some kind of special treatment. I talked to you because I... wanted to. I regret that now, obviously."

This explicit rejection, although justified and reciprocated, was still somewhat hurtful. It also didn't escape Max that she had just said that she had hit on him. The confirmation that she had actually been interested in him didn't make this whole situation any less uncomfortable or unfortunate. He nevertheless felt the need to reassure her a little, because she seemed quite distressed and nothing of this was her fault, after all.

"It honestly didn’t even occur to me that you could have known who I was. And the thoughts you shared in class today were proof enough to show that you wouldn't need any kind of favoritism in order to pass this class. So don't worry about that. You're welcome to stay if you want to."

A sight blush formed on her freckled cheeks at his praise, and she nodded. "I really liked today's lesson. I think one of the most important aspects of being a teacher is to be able to get all of your students enthusiastic about your subject, and I feel like this course will help to actually achieve that."

Max gave her a faint smile. He hoped not to fail her expectations, but just like yesterday, he was impressed by how much thought and effort she put into her future job. It reminded him of himself when he began teaching.

"I'm glad to hear someone looks forward to this class. Monday mornings are tough for everyone, me included." As if by command, Max had to suppress a yawn. One night of good sleep apparently didn’t make up for weeks (months?) of restless tossing and turning, and he was in desperate need for another coffee. He also needed to stop talking before he allowed her another glance through his fragile façade. Not that it wasn’t way too late for that, anyway.

Sam - Miss Harding - took his obvious fatigue as a signal for her to leave. "Well, I definitely look forward to it." He noticed that she did actually not seem tried at all. She had the fresh look of someone who had their life under control. Enviable. "I'll see you next Monday, then."

"Right." Sam began to make her way to the door. "Have a good first week at Stanford," he added, awkwardly.

She turned around to give him a warm smile before she exited, leaving him behind in the empty lecture room and alone with his thoughts.

Oh god, at this rate, Max had a very strange year ahead of him.