The Substitute (AI assisted)

[Fragment]

Sorry for not being able to write myself. But I needed an outlet and asked ChatGPT to write me a story that would capture some of the feelings I'm going through. With a little guidance it did a pretty good job.

Title: The Substitute

Eli hadn’t planned to teach again. He hadn’t planned much of anything.

After his arrest, he'd served six months in prison—a term he thought would be followed by deportation. But the letter never came. No escort at the gate. No official notice. Just silence. Somehow, he remained.

It baffled him. And yet, here he was, applying for a teaching job. The only thing he knew how to do.

After the conviction, after the years of self-imposed exile that followed, he thought that part of him was gone. A closed door. A story with no sequel. But life didn’t end all at once. It frayed. And in the fifth year since everything had collapsed, when he was surviving on savings and the kindness of exactly two people, he found himself applying for a job.

It was in a rural town in western Japan. The position was temporary—a junior high English teacher needed medical leave, and the school was scrambling. The pay was low, the housing subsidized, the location obscure. And they needed someone immediately.

Eli submitted his documents without expecting a response.

He didn’t hide his past. He included the court summary in Japanese, translated the key lines from the ruling:
- Inappropriate physical contact
- Minor involved, age 14
- No coercion or violence

He also included a letter from his therapist. No one asked for an interview.

A week later, he was on a train.

---

The principal was polite, efficient, and didn’t ask any personal questions. He reviewed Eli’s experience, his degree, his visa. Then he simply said:

“You understand what we expect from you?”

Eli nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“No trouble.”

“Of course.”

“You can finish the term?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

---

The school was perched on a hill, surrounded by misty rice fields and collapsing farmhouses. His apartment was a 10-minute bike ride from the school, next to a shuttered soba shop. It was quiet, and the quiet felt safe.

The students were typical: a mix of bored, distracted, sweet, and shy. Eli kept his tone measured, his posture open, his movements deliberate. He didn’t linger near desks. He didn’t make jokes. He corrected homework, gave tests, and bowed exactly as deeply as required.

He never sat with the other teachers during lunch.

The first week was mechanical. Lesson plans, grading rubrics, textbook drills. He re-learned the rhythms of the school day like a muscle memory returning under tension.

He noticed Kenta in the second week.

Kenta sat in the third row, second seat from the left. Always on time. Uniform crisp. Notes organized. The kind of student who didn’t speak unless called on, but always had the right answer when he did.

The first time Eli called on him, it was during a reading comprehension activity. Kenta read aloud with fluid intonation, almost native.

After class, Eli checked the student records. Kenta Takahashi. Father Japanese. Mother Canadian. Lived in Canada until age nine.

That explained the accent. The ease.

He started watching more carefully—not just Kenta, but all of them. Watching for signs. Watching himself.

By the end of the third week, he could feel his shoulders relax during English period with Class 2B. He hated that he looked forward to it.

---

Kenta approached him after class for the first time in the fourth week.

“Sensei. You said you’re from Vancouver, right?”

Eli blinked. “You remembered that?”

“My mom’s from Richmond. I lived there until I was nine.”

“That explains a lot.”

Kenta smiled. “Most native teachers have weird accents. Yours sounds like home.”

That word stung.

---

It didn’t become a routine. Not at first. Just a coincidence that Kenta passed by his classroom more often than others. Then the questions started—actual ones, about grammar, pronunciation, books.

“Do you think The Giver is depressing or honest?”
“What’s the difference between ‘despite’ and ‘although’?”
“Do you ever write your own stories?”

Eli answered, always carefully, always with that professional edge. But Kenta had a way of drawing people out. He didn’t demand attention. He just gave it.

By the end of the fifth week, Kenta was eating lunch in the English room two or three times a week. He brought an extra onigiri. He always asked first.

“If it’s not okay, I can eat in the library.”

“It’s fine,” Eli would say. “Just close the door quietly when you leave.”

---

They talked about books more than anything.

Kenta had a taste for melancholy. He liked Never Let Me Go, had recently read Norwegian Wood, and had a marked-up copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

“You like boys who don’t fit,” Eli said once.

“They’re the only ones who feel real.”

Sometimes Kenta asked about Eli’s life, but never pushed.

“Did you always want to be a teacher?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Something quieter.”

“Like what?”

“Translation. Maybe carpentry.”

Kenta grinned. “Carpentry? That’s cool. Do you know how to make things?”

“I used to.”

---

Eli began to see the way Kenta lingered. How he looked at him with open interest. How easy it was to talk when the door was closed.

He panicked.

The next day, when Kenta came by with two onigiri, Eli stood in the doorway.

“You should eat in the library today,” he said. “I’m busy.”

Kenta blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

He turned to leave, but Eli hesitated.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “If you want.”

Kenta smiled, just a little. “Sure.”

That brief moment of distance faded. The old rhythm returned, softer, more natural. Eli let it happen—not out of carelessness, but out of exhaustion from pretending not to care.

The next week, the lunches resumed too. More relaxed this time. Kenta would sometimes arrive early and quietly sit the extra onigiri on Eli's desk as if there were never any tension. Eli would pretend to be focused on his grading, but eventually the silence would break.

One afternoon, as they discussed Of Mice and Men, Kenta made an offhand comment about how loneliness changes people. Eli had nodded along, reflexively, but Kenta noticed something in his expression.

"Do you ever feel like you’re still paying for something? Even when you've already been punished?" Kenta asked, gently.

Eli looked up. The words struck too close. He considered deflecting, but instead just said, "Yes."

Kenta hesitated. "You don't have to answer. I was just wondering."

They sat in silence after that. Not awkward. Just weighty. Eli reached across the table to move Kenta's pencil case aside so it wouldn’t smudge his worksheet.

Their hands brushed.

Eli didn’t move away immediately. Neither did Kenta. There was a brief moment—two seconds, maybe—where it felt like time stalled.

Then Eli stood, heart hammering in his chest, the weight of memory and instinct crashing into him all at once.

"We should stop. I mean, you should go."

Kenta nodded. He didn’t look hurt. Just calm.

"Okay, sensei."

They packed up in silence. As Kenta left the room, he glanced back once. Eli didn’t meet his eyes.

---

Eli knew the feeling building in his chest. He’d named it before, long ago. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t fantasy. It was closeness. Affection. Longing. Something small and quiet and enormous.

It was the kind of feeling that made you forget the world had consequences.

He pulled back.

Shorter answers. Less eye contact. No more private lunches.

Kenta noticed.

---

“Did I do something?” he asked one afternoon, catching Eli at the bicycle rack.

“No.”

“You won’t talk to me anymore.”

Eli exhaled slowly. “Sometimes adults need space.”

“But...”

“Just leave it.”

Kenta looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re the only person here who treats me like I’m not 10-years-old.”

Eli said nothing.

Kenta stepped back. “It’s okay. I just wanted you to know that.”

He left.

---

That night, Eli sat at his desk with a blank page in front of him. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t shaking. He was simply hollowed out.

It had happened again.
Not the mistake. Not the crossing of a line.
But the nearness of it.
The impossibility of existing in a world where even kindness was a liability.
Where connection meant danger.
Where you could love someone gently, quietly, and still be condemned for it.

He had done everything right this time.
And still, he knew how others would see it.
What they would assume.
How easily this would spiral again.

He couldn't go through it a second time.
Not the questions.
Not the humiliation.
Not the loss of something innocent being framed as monstrous.

He printed a short note, sealed it in an envelope addressed to the principal.

Please take care of Kenta.

He left before sunrise.

Checked into a small hotel in a nearby city.
Swallowed the pills.
Didn’t turn off the light.

---

On Monday morning, the entire school assembled in the gymnasium. The atmosphere was thick and strange, filled with the kind of silence students aren’t used to holding.

The vice principal stood on the stage. He adjusted his glasses slowly before speaking into the microphone.

“Everyone, please listen carefully. As many of you know, Eli-sensei is no longer with us. Over the weekend, we received word that he passed away suddenly.”

There was a soft ripple of murmurs through the crowd. A few gasps. Some exchanged glances. Most remained still, confused.

“We are treating this as a tragic and unexpected event. Out of respect for his family and his privacy, we will not be sharing details. I ask that you refrain from speculation.”

The teachers standing at the edges of the gym wore practiced expressions. The kind that say, *This is sad, but we are moving on.*

A girl near the front row sniffled. Someone shifted on the hardwood floor.

Kenta sat near the center. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The vice principal bowed. “We will now have a moment of silence.”

They all lowered their heads.

Kenta didn’t. He kept his eyes open, staring at the stage, unmoving. His fists clenched subtly, knuckles paling under the tension.

His hands were perfectly still in his lap.

---

The day the news came, Kenta walked home alone. He dropped his bag by the door and went straight to his room. He opened his laptop, hesitating. Not because he didn't want to know—but because he already sensed there was something to find.

He started simple, just Eli's full name.

What he expected, he wasn’t sure. A tribute post? An obituary? Some kind of mistake?

The first page brought up generic results—teaching directories, archived workshop slides, an old English-language blog. But halfway through the second page, something else appeared. A headline. Not sensational, just... clinical.

He clicked.

The article mentioned a prior incident. Tokyo. A student. A court case. The language was vague but unmistakable. Kenta’s heart slowed as he read.

He opened a new tab. Added "arrest" to the search.

This time, it came fast—another article, then an official court notice. Dry. Sparse.

Fourteen-year-old male student. Inappropriate physical contact. Resigned. Six month sentence.

Kenta stared at the screen.

Everything suddenly made sense.

He closed the laptop. Opened his backpack. Pulled out the copy of The Outsiders Eli had recommended.

And read it again, slowly, all the way to the last page.

He didn’t cry. But he didn’t sleep either. He just lay back on his bed, the book open across his chest, trying to make sense of something that no one would ever explain to him.

He wouldn’t forget.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Kenta read the final lines again. The ones Eli had said he liked most.

“Nothing gold can stay.”

[FairBlueLove]

Very deep and touching... And who says that AI cannot speak to the heart?