Page 3 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

PRESENT DAY

You spend days—weeks, months—trying to scrub an image from your brain.

Your boyfriend. Naked with another woman .

A boyfriend who was a self-proclaimed gay man since his teens.

A bottom, through and through. His words, not mine.

Or so he said.

Tim got what was coming to him.

A year ago, I kicked him out of my apartment while mercilessly breaking my own heart in the process.

I could’ve understood confusion. Curiosity.

Hell, I’m bisexual. Who better to talk to than me?

But he didn’t talk.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, he plotted the most fucked-up night imaginable. Chose it carefully, too—a night he knew I had a networking event. One of those late-night mixers that end with overpriced cocktails and handshakes that reek of ego.

But I skipped the drinks that night.

Because I missed him. My boyfriend of two years. Missed his warmth. His bad jokes. His laugh.

He hadn’t been himself for a few weeks. I had chalked it up to my gruelling work hours. Even taking the blame for the lack of intimacy for those weeks. We had a major software launch happening in our Direct-to-Consumer platform.

I couldn’t spare time, dammit!

Kepler Health was a tiny team of 64 employees at the time. Tim knew— knew —that the hustle would die down in a few weeks. And we’d be back to our old selves.

Well, I was wrong in assuming that he wanted the same things. Hell, he’d spent months contemplating how not to go back to his old self.

Fuck.

The image of him and that nameless woman is burned into my skull. Every frame was seared in permanent ink. I couldn’t throw him out fast enough. Couldn’t erase them fast enough.

After I kicked him out, I made sure his co-op internship at my company got pulled. Swift and quiet. No drama. Just a vanished opportunity. Cold-hearted revenge.

I also didn’t want to see him.

Run into the one person I’d had to block out with alcohol and questionable decisions over the past year.

Didn’t want to be reminded.

Thankfully, his university was a good distance from downtown Toronto. No accidental coffee shop run-ins. No awkward subway sightings.

When I got the email asking me to guest lecture, I double —triple-checked —the sender’s address.

Not York University. Not his school.

Even though I knew he was no longer a student, I wanted to make damn sure nothing would trigger a relapse of the nightmare.

I was wrong.

Because now? Now I’m standing here, breathing the same air as her . The second reminder.

Those eyes.

Cool. Unbothered. Detached.

They stared right through me that night, while my chest was caving in and my world collapsed. None of my words that night touched her. Not even a flinch.

I was unraveling, itching under my skin, and she just calmly collected her clothes and left.

And now I’m supposed to work with this cohort from UofT’s entrepreneurship course. A month of mentorship, lectures, and engagement.

Which, apparently, means I’ll be staring into those same indifferent dark eyes every damn week.

Fucking hell.

God forbid they actually expect me to interact with these students. Some of them are older than my 32-year-old ass.

And yet, none of them hold the same gravity as the one girl I never thought I’d see again.

I barely register the questions being tossed my way until one finally lands.

I should’ve known these Rotman rots would drill my ass like a panel on Shark Tank.

Dragging my eyes away from her is harder than it should be. I turn to a woman seated near the front—mid-40s, maybe. Sharp bob, sharper expression.

“Could you tell us why you chose to pursue pet healthcare over human healthcare?” she asks. “Given that interoperability remains a significant challenge in the human sector as well.”

Christ.

I am not in the fucking headspace to rehash this story for the thousandth time.

But I relent.

Because, despite everything, I love this story.

Even if it’s partially tainted now.

“One thing I want you all to take away from what I’m about to say...” I glance at her again—still hiding behind that damn notebook. Not a twitch. Not a lift of her gaze. “...is that entrepreneurship should be rooted in something you believe in. Deeply. Obsessively, even.”

I pause, sweeping my eyes over the sea of faces. Almost a hundred students in total. Some tuned in, some pretending.

“You might build something because there’s a known pain point. Or you want to innovate within a space you understand. Maybe it’s just passion—you love an idea enough to fight for it. Either way, you should want it. Not your advisor. Not your VC. You.”

I let the silence land for a second.

“I started this company because my own pet—my cat, Cooper—had chronic health issues. We were doing ER visits, checkups, follow-ups, insurance claims, med schedules... It was chaos. And I was trying to do a full-time job on the side of that chaos.”

My throat tightens.

Cooper.

A year without him, and it still hurts like hell.

“I was giving him medication every six hours. I barely slept. I worked with spreadsheets in one hand and a syringe in the other. It was relentless. And none of it was... connected. Every vet, every hospital, every clinic operated in silos. Nothing was seamless. Nothing made sense.”

A long breath. A beat.

“I started Kepler Health because of Cooper. I built it because the system wasn’t made for people like me.

Not with empathy. Not with intelligence.

And yeah, maybe I could claim our software is industry-agnostic.

But I’d be lying. It was personal. And when we launched the prototype, the market validation proved that the gap was real. ”

I nod, wrapping it up. “So... yeah. That’s the story.”

A few polite nods. Some scribbling. A few more hands go up.

I take more questions, but my mind’s elsewhere. Hyperaware of her still—not speaking. Not reacting. Not looking at me.

She doesn’t raise her hand. Doesn’t even blink.

And for some reason, that grates.

No. It burns.

I want her flustered. Uncomfortable. Shattered.

Because that’s what she left behind when she walked out of my apartment—naked, quiet, untouchable.

I don’t even know her fucking name.

And that’s the problem.

I want to give my nightmare a name.

As soon as the lecture ends, I casually step down from the podium. Smile at a few students. Nod at the coordinator.

Then I beeline toward her.

Not too fast.

Not too obvious.

Just enough.

Just enough to make sure she sees me coming.