Reason to Run

2024-08-01

"Why don’t you revise that part of your novel where the boy meets his new neighbor and falls in love with her?" said Mme. Dubois, a professor of literature at Geneva University, in her early forties, with a look that suggested she had seen too many romantic clichés. "It feels a bit shallow, especially in the part where you describe the boy’s feelings."

"You’re right. I should probably do that," replied George, with the enthusiasm of someone agreeing to remove all four wisdom teeth.

George didn’t sleep that night. He lay in bed, consumed by a mix of despair and anger. It wasn’t his grades that troubled him; not at all. The real problem was far more poetic and equally pathetic. He was hopelessly in love with Mme. Dubois.

Women had never been George’s forte. He was the type who sat neither at the back nor at the front in school, but somewhere in between, in the gray area of mediocrity. Always in his checkered button-down shirt and 501 Levi’s jeans, he was the epitome of understated nerdiness, a paperback book his constant companion. Conversation wasn’t his strength either, and he would bolt from school at the earliest opportunity to spend his days reading on a bench near the lake, far from the maddening crowd.

His parents, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to enroll him in the local university to study literature.

He will become a great writer, you’ll see!" his mother would declare, her optimism as unwavering as her bad taste in floral upholstery. "You bet! If not, he’ll end up as one of those library workers," his father would add, his confidence in George’s future as shaky as his hand at poker."

George wasn’t particularly fond of his studies. He found most of the professors shallow, and the students around him didn’t meet his exacting standards, which were primarily based on their ability to discuss Proust without sounding pretentious. He kept to himself, spending nights and days reading novels, lately of the romantic variety, which only served to deepen his existential ennui.

His life took a dramatic turn in his second year of studies. On a rainy Monday, a day as dreary as his prospects, he was drinking his morning coffee in class, trying to wake up and shake off the cloud of melancholy that had become his constant companion. And then she entered.

It was a new class on the classical American novel, and the professor was a young visiting fellow from the US. She looked sharp and smart, everything George thought a woman should be, though his experience was limited to literary heroines and his mother’s bridge club. She was Native American, but her parents were European immigrants from Paris, a background as complex and intriguing as a French film plot. Her voice was soft, contrasting with her authoritative teaching style, a paradox that only deepened George’s fascination. She usually wore glasses and classic American leather loafers, paired with a dark navy skirt and a white shirt, an ensemble that spoke of effortless intellect. For the first time in his life, George felt his heart beat in rhythm with each step of Mme. Dubois.

George’s infatuation with Mme. Dubois grew with each passing day. He watched her from afar, longing to express his feelings but paralyzed by fear and a profound sense of his own ridiculousness. His nights were restless, filled with dreams of her, and his days were consumed by thoughts of her. He tried to focus on his studies, but his mind always wandered back to her, like a moth to a very sophisticated flame.

One evening, driven by a mix of desperation and a misguided sense of romantic destiny, George decided to write a letter to Mme. Dubois. He poured his heart out, describing his feelings with a raw honesty that bordered on self-indulgence. But as he finished the letter, reality set in. He realized he could never give it to her. The fear of rejection and the potential consequences of his confession were too great. Besides, he had seen enough romantic comedies to know how these things ended, and it wasn’t pretty.

Desperate and despondent, George wandered to the lake where he often found solace in his books. The night was cold, the water still, and the whole scene had the tragic atmosphere of a Russian novel. He stood at the edge, staring into the dark depths, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over him. The words of his favorite writers echoed in his mind, speaking of love, loss, and the thin line between life and death, or as he now saw it, the thin line between tragic and pathetic.

In that moment, George felt that death was the essence of life, a final release from the pain of unrequited love and the ceaseless irony of his existence. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, the icy water embracing him as he let himself sink into oblivion, a scene that would have made a great ending to a European art film.

The next morning, his lifeless body was found by a jogger, who promptly called the authorities and then spent the rest of the day wondering why he had taken up jogging in the first place. The news spread quickly through the university, shocking students and faculty alike. Mme. Dubois was deeply affected by his death. She had noticed George’s quiet presence in her class, the intensity in his eyes whenever she spoke. She had thought about reaching out to him, sensing that he needed someone to talk to, but she had been too preoccupied with her own responsibilities, like deciphering the university’s bureaucratic maze and avoiding the advances of the overly friendly Dean.

At the memorial service, Mme. Dubois spoke of George’s potential and his passion for literature. She held back tears as she described the tragic loss of a young life, a brilliant mind snuffed out too soon. As she left the service, she couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if she had reached out to him, if she had seen the signs of his inner turmoil, if she had maybe assigned fewer readings on existential despair.

George’s death left a void in the university, a somber reminder of the fragility of life and the silent battles waged within the hearts of those around us. His story, unfinished and tragic, lingered in the minds of those who knew him, a haunting echo of what could have been, and a cautionary tale about the dangers of mixing literary romanticism with real-life ennui.

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