"So, I found this wrapped around the lecture room doorknob this morning," I announce, holding up a purple scarf like it's a relic from some ancient ceremony.

A collective "Oooooohhhh" rises from my older students, followed by clapping and a few knowing grins. The newer students look around, bewildered, clearly missing the memo.

"We've been challenged," I reveal, ending their confusion. I hold up a sealed envelope tied to the scarf with a satin ribbon. "And I haven't opened this yet. I figured we'd do it together—makes it more dramatic, don't you think?"

The class quickly settles, eyes forward, excitement palpable.

"What does it mean, Mrs. Cameron?" I hear Rebecca's voice from the back.

I glance up, spotting her sitting next to Harry. She's fresh-faced and casually stunning—denim, wool beanie, cheeks naturally flushed with youth and enthusiasm. She looks like she belongs on the cover of an indie album. And Harry? Completely unbothered. Cool as ever. A smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to fumble a piece of paper.

It shouldn't bother me. Not as a professional. Not as a grown-ass woman. But it does.

Still, I take a breath, put on my best professor face, and press on.

"This, my dear Rebecca, is a traditional academic duel. Every year, our department and the Sociology majors throw down the gauntlet—so to speak. One department challenges the other to a formal debate. The first to issue the challenge gets to choose the topic. And in this case"—I wave the scarf—"they beat us to it."

A few groans and playful boos from my regulars. I smile.

"A committee of Humanities faculty—neutral judges, I promise—will determine the winning side. The debate will be held in the main hall. The dean attends but doesn't vote, although he loves to stir the pot."

I tear open the envelope with a flourish, giving the students a beat of silence for dramatic tension. Then I read aloud.

"Euthanasia."

Gasps. A few muttered "whoas." A pencil drops and rolls off a desk.

I raise the paper above my head so everyone can read it like it's the Ten Commandments.

"Looks like they're not pulling any punches this year," I say, folding the paper and setting it on the desk.

And in the back, Harry and Rebecca exchange a look—one I can't read, and one I shouldn't try to.

"Damn, that's a hard one," someone mutters.

"It depends which side you're on," another voice adds, sparking murmurs around the room.

I let them talk. I want them to feel it—grapple with it. That's what this is about.

"It's probably because of that film Me Before You. That's where this came from," someone offers.

"There's no doubt this will be a heated debate," I say, easing onto the front edge of my desk. I'm not hiding behind it today—I want to feel their energy, hear their instincts.

"It is, after all, one of the most controversial ethical dilemmas of our time."

Emma raises her hand. "Are we supposed to support one side or the other? Are we for or against it?"

"Well, that's the beauty of it, I suppose. We'll find out—on the day of the debate." I smile as their eyes widen and a few students groan dramatically.

"But Mrs. Cameron," Norton chimes in, "why do we even do this? We're not law students. How is this helpful?"

"As future psychologists—or sociologists—this is your field," I explain, scanning the faces around me. "You'll encounter patients who wrestle with suicidal ideation. You'll counsel families watching their loved ones deteriorate. You'll walk into rooms where pain is louder than words. And you'll need to know how to sit in that space and hold it."

A moment of silence follows before I press on. "First things first. Can anyone give us a working definition of the term?"

Julie raises her hand. "It's when someone helps a person end their life—usually because they're terminally ill and can't do it on their own."

"Well said, Julie. Thank you."

"Anyone familiar with Dr. Jack Kevorkian?"

Blank faces. A few shakes of the head.

"Don't worry. We'll circle back to him."

I push off from the desk and head to the whiteboard. "Let's take a few minutes to brainstorm. It's fresh—we just got the topic—but I want to know what you think. Is it ever justified? Why is it so divisive?"

"It's never justified," a quiet voice says from the back.

"Please elaborate," I encourage.

John, usually shy, speaks up. "When people are in pain, they're not thinking clearly. They might make a decision they wouldn't make if they had hope. Like...what if a cure comes out in a few months?"

"Excellent point. Mental clarity in terminal cases. Let's put that up."

"Yeah, but if it were me?" Nick breaks in. "I'd rather die than melt in a hospital bed, pumped full of drugs."

"It's my life. My right. Why should someone else get to decide how much I suffer?"

"Nick, that's crap and you know it," someone snaps.

"Sara. Language, please," I say gently, though I appreciate the passion.

"Sorry, Miss. But pain messes with your mind. Besides, there's medication now—morphine, other stuff."

"And then you're a vegetable," Nick counters.

"Nick," I warn again.

"Sorry," he sighs, but continues. "I just... I wouldn't want that for me. Or my family. Watching someone rot...it's not living. It ruins lives."

"So—family suffering, financial burden, quality of life," I list, scribbling his points on the board.

"It's not a burden if it's someone you love."

The voice is quiet, sincere. My eyes lift instinctively to find him.

"Go on," I urge, careful not to show too much.

Harry clears his throat. "I mean, if it were my mum... I wouldn't mind. I'd take care of her. I'd spend the money. I'd keep her here as long as I could. It's selfish, maybe. But I'd want her around."

"That's because you're loaded, mate. You can afford it. What if she begged you to end it?" Nick challenges.

"Nick!" I snap. But Harry holds up a hand—he's not backing down.

"No, that's not it. It's not about money. I just... I wouldn't want to lose her. Not even a minute early."

The room is still. His vulnerability is so raw it makes me ache.

"That's because you're a mama's boy and everyone knows it!" a voice pipes up from the back.

"Mr. Coopers," I say sharply, striding toward him. "You speak! How refreshing."

He shifts, suddenly less smug.

"You know, in all my years studying psychology, I came across this fascinating chapter—on people who enjoy belittling others." I smile sweetly. "Turns out, when the subject is male, Freud would argue it's compensation for...certain inadequacies."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he scoffs.

"Oh, you know. Small willy. Just a theory," I say with a wink, and the room erupts.

Laughter, whistles, claps.

I catch Harry's eyes. There it is again—that quiet gratitude. It makes my throat catch.

But then Coopers opens his mouth again.

"Miss Cameron, your husband died of cancer, didn't he?"

And just like that, I stop breathing.

"Yes," I say, quieter than I mean to. My mind is instantly hijacked—chlorine, antiseptic, beeping monitors. Jason's pale hand in mine.

"Wouldn't you have wanted him to die without suffering?" Coopers asks, his voice far too casual for the wreckage he's unearthing. "If he'd asked, would you have helped him go?"

Harry shifts in his chair again, fists clenched. He's ready to speak, to defend. But I lift my chin. I don't need saving.

"Well, in that case, Mr. Coopers, I'd be selfish. Like Mr. Styles." I swallow. "I'd want him with me. Even for one more second. Because even the smallest moment with him would always be better than the finality of without."

My voice wavers. "I would have delayed calling our daughter to tell her her father was gone. I would have stolen every second I could. But God didn't give us that choice. He went quickly. So no, I never got the chance to say yes. Or no. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, Miss. Cameron," he mumbles.

"And it's Mrs. Cameron. Not Miss."

The silence in the room is deafening.

I take a breath that doesn't go deep enough. "Any other arguments?"

Rebecca's hand raises hesitantly. "First of all... I'm really sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, sweetheart. It's been a while, but thank you."

She continues. "I was just thinking...about those rare cases you hear about. People who wake up from comas years later. Like, how can you ever really know when someone's beyond hope?"

I nod. I hear her. But I'm somewhere else now. Holding a hand that's already gone cold.

Still, I write her point on the board, though the chalk feels heavier than it should. I give them more questions to consider. I assign reading, remind them of our schedule, and dismiss the class.

By the time I leave, I feel like I've run a marathon. Every step echoes with the effort of holding myself together.

I slip my coat on and reach for my briefcase just as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

A message.

Harry: I'm so sorry. 

I stare at the screen.

And I whisper to no one, "So am I."

Then I open the door and step out into the quiet hallway, leaving the heaviness of the room—and the past—behind me.