I saw him again today. Of course I did, I see him every day. Every single morning I see him, which is why I am never late to his class, no matter what. The first class of the day, the reason that I haven't missed a day of school. Just to see him is enough for me.

Everyday he stands up, front and center, in the little room that just barely fills twenty-seven students. As he greets us, welcoming us to class, I just sit in my desk and stare at him, never even suppressing the smile that begins to creep across my face. I am not in the seat of bliss, the one in the first row, right in front of him, although I wish I could be. To see him up close is almost too much to bear; I would hardly be able to restrain myself, the sheer thought is enough to cause me to nearly collapse with happiness.

Oh, how I love him. The way his hair glistens when the light catches it, the way he cares for his students, always trying to help someone who is struggling; his voice, oh, his voice, it's like it came from heaven, a warm light in the darkness. I would do anything for him. My heart rests in his hands, yet he does not know it.

Soon I will tell him of my love, of the way he makes me feel, of the way my heart almost stops beating completely when I see him, of the dreams that I have at night with him always at the center of them. Soon he will know, and soon he will realize that he loves me too. They will say that it is wrong; a teacher can't have a relationship with a student. But it will not matter; our love is stronger than that. We will be together forever, they will see.

Red marks the errors of the students. With one dash a student's grade is affected. Several, he could tell, seemed to not care about their grades, or at least the class. Some he could tell were trying, some were doing fine, some were excelling, and others struggled just to pass.

But there was one student in his class who seemed, dare he utter the impossible, to actually enjoy the class. She always arrived at school on time, early actually. She worked hard, even going above and beyond the requirements of the assigned work. Ever since the school year started she has never missed even one day of school. If only he had more students like her.

He sighed, the turmoil in his mind apparent to no one. He went to turn over the band of gold on his hand before he realized that it wasn't there anymore. His wife left several months ago, yet he couldn't stop thinking about her. It happened before school began, before he became a teacher at this school. No one knew anything.

He always kept up an act, never letting on that he wasn't all right. He didn't want anyone to know that he hated his life, hated having her gone, hating her period. Why did he have to love her when she broke his heart in the end?

He needed something to keep his mind off of her, some kind of outlet for the pain. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, what was going on in his life. How he wondered how he never noticed the signs. How he wished she never left. How he wished she were dead.

From her place in the bushes, she sees him walking out of his car.
She knows of the other student. the way she looks at him would go unnoticed to inexperienced eyes. The affectiion was clear on her face; the love was evident in her eyes.
Did he tell her what happened? Did he tell of how his wife left him? Just disappared out of nowhere? She chuckled to herself. His wife did leave, but not willingly.
After all that's happened, he did not knkow anything of the truth. Or what would happen soon. The girl would be no problem; it would be easy to get rid of her. Then she'd find someone around town, someone with almost no known relation to the girl. She'd spin al little story, making their deaths meaningful. Maybe a suicide, yes, make it look like he killed her and then himself. Or maybe a poisoning, make her the killer, and her death would only be a robbery gone wrong, purely coincidental. Lovers not in truth but in a lie. No one would know the difference.
But what would she do, when they found the other body? She would spin another tale; it would be so easy to make it look like a a serial killer had done it. They had no idea how easy it was to make up a story, going as far from the truth as possible and makking it real. There would be no way that they could tie the death's of a teacher's wife and his student together.
All too soon she realized that magnatude of what could happen. They would suspect him, maybe even tie him to their deaths. Her stories would mean nothing. Unless she had a scape goat.
That was it. She didn't need to kill the girl, just make it look like she did it. But she didn't know him then, there was no way they could make her a suspect. The obsession she had for him would mean nothing.
But there was only one way to change all that. If she could make it look like she found the wife, killed her to steal him away, and then make it a crime of passion. That's what they would think once they discovered the body. She would realize that if she was not careful, her beloved teacher would be a suspect. Whether or not she knew he had a wife, she would confess. She would do it, if only to save him.
It would be so easy, she would watch as her web of lies caught the right people; it would be a marvulous production, they would all play their parts perfectly. All she had to do was watch as her plan unfolded, and so woudl begin her new life, with the man she loved.