Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 154

Adrian’s POV

Five days since I slept in the same bed as Sophie. Five nights on the study couch with a pillow that smells like old coffee and failure.

We barely speak anymore. The apartment has become a carefully choreographed dance of avoidance punctuated by necessary logistics.

"Amelia needs more formula."

"The groceries ran out."

"Mom is visiting tomorrow."

Functional communication between strangers sharing space. Nothing personal, nothing real. Just the bare minimum required to keep our daughter alive and our separate lives from colliding.

I watch from the study doorway as the afternoon unfolds without me.

Bellamy holds Amelia against his shoulder with natural ease while Sophie prepares her bottle at the kitchen counter.

Their movements are synchronized through repetition—he adjusts his hold before Sophie needs to ask, she tests the temperature without him prompting, they trade Amelia back and forth with practiced efficiency.

Sophie laughs at something Bellamy says. That real laugh I used to inspire, back when I was someone worth laughing with. Bellamy responds with something quiet I can't hear from my position in the doorway. Sophie swats his arm playfully.

The casual intimacy makes my chest tight.

They look like a family: complete, functional, happy. And I look like an intruder watching through the window of a life I'm no longer part of.

Amelia babbles contentedly in Bellamy's arms. She never babbles like that for me. Just screams until Sophie rescues her from my incompetent attempts at fatherhood.

I retreat to my study before they notice me watching. Close the door on the sound of their laughter.

This is my home. My apartment. My daughter. My girlfriend.

Except none of those possessives feel true anymore.

Late that night, I pull out the whiskey again.

It's become routine. Wait until Sophie goes to bed. Wait until the apartment goes quiet. Pour a glass. Then another. Sit in the darkness scrolling through my phone with numb detachment.

Tonight I open old photos. Swipe through images from a life that feels like it belonged to someone else.

I stop on one from two years ago.

Academic conference. Spring symposium on postmodern literature. I'm on stage receiving an award for my published research—something about narrative theory and reader response criticism. The details blur but the image is crystal clear.

Professor Adrian Lewis in a tailored charcoal suit. Standing at a podium with the award in hand, surrounded by colleagues who respected my work, my intellect, and my contributions to the field.

The audience is full. People are actually listening, taking notes, caring about what I have to say.

I look powerful in that photo, in control. Master of my carefully constructed world.

I zoom in on my own face. The confidence there, the certainty. The man who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted.

Then I look up from my phone, and take in my current reality.

It's 2 AM. I'm drunk in my study for the fifth night in a row, hiding from my own bedroom because sleeping next to Sophie feels like lying beside a stranger.

My daughter screams whenever I touch her. My girlfriend can't stand being in the same room. Another man is raising my child while I watch from doorways like a ghost haunting his own life.

The contrast is devastating.

That Adrian had tenure prospects and book deals and intellectual legacy. Commanded lecture halls. Inspired students. Built something that mattered.

This Adrian changes diapers wrong and gets soap in a baby's eyes and can't even feed his own daughter without failing.

That Adrian was respected. Admired. Autonomous.

This Adrian is trapped in an apartment that stopped feeling like home, playing a role he's fundamentally incapable of performing, watching his family form around someone else while he disintegrates in the margins.

I pour another whiskey. The bottle is half empty. Or half full, depending on optimism I don't possess.

The thought that's been circling for days finally crystallizes with brutal clarity.

They would all be better off without me.

Sophie would have Bellamy's support without my toxicity poisoning everything. She's already turning to him anyway—for comfort, for help, for the emotional presence I can't provide.

Without me in the way, they could stop pretending. Could build the family they're already becoming.

Amelia would have a father figure who actually knows what he's doing. Who doesn't fill her with terror when he tries to hold her. Who can soothe her crying instead of making it worse.

Bellamy loves her already—I see it in how he looks at her, talks to her, anticipates her needs. He'd be better for her than I could ever be.

And me? I'd be free. Free from the constant reminder of my failures. Free from the suffocating domesticity I was never built for. Free to become Professor Lewis again, or whatever version of myself doesn't involve drowning in an apartment full of people who'd be happier without me.

I'm just the obstacle they're all navigating around. The burden they're carrying out of obligation.

Sophie stays because we have a daughter together. Not because she wants me.

Amelia tolerates me because she's too young to choose. Once she can walk and talk, she'll run to Bellamy every time.

Even my own mother looks at me with disappointment thinly veiled as concern.

I scroll back to the conference photo, stare at the man I used to be.

He wouldn't recognize what I've become, wouldn't understand how I let myself dissolve into this pathetic shadow. How I went from commanding respect to begging my own daughter to stop crying.

The whiskey burns going down. I welcome the pain. At least it's something I can feel besides numbness.

I sit in the darkness for a long time: thinking, planning, considering options I never thought I'd consider.

Bellamy promised he'd be there for them. Always. I heard it in his voice—absolute certainty. Whatever happens, Sophie and Amelia won't be alone.

That knowledge settles something inside me. Loosens a knot I didn't realize was choking me.

The decision forms—not sudden, but inevitable. Like watching dominoes fall in slow motion toward a conclusion that was always coming.

I don't know exactly when I'll act on it. Not tonight—I'm too drunk, too emotional. This requires clarity. Planning. Making sure everything is handled properly.

But the decision itself is made.

I set the empty glass down with careful precision. Stand on unsteady legs. The room tilts slightly.

In the morning, I'll start putting things in order. Making arrangements. Ensuring Sophie and Amelia are protected from the fallout of what comes next.

For now, I just need to sleep.

I lie down on the study couch, still fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling until my eyelids go heavy.