It was the year 1970. A time when boys arrived at school in pressed suits and polished shoes, and girls walked the hallways in dresses and modest heels. People addressed one another with Miss and Mister. There were no ringing cellphones, no buzzing distractions. Only rules, routine, and the quiet rhythm of ordinary days.

You sat at your desk near the middle row, absent-mindedly twirling a strand of hair around your finger while your English teacher stood at the front of the classroom. Chalk scraped softly across the board as he explained the lesson, his voice steady but firm.

Most of the class disliked him. He was strict, sharp with his words, and never hesitated to scold a student for even the smallest mistake. There was little warmth in the way he taught.

For reasons he never quite understood himself, he had always treated you differently though. You were quiet, attentive, respectful. You did your work without complaint, listened when he spoke, and greeted him politely whenever your paths crossed in the hallway. There was a gentleness in the way you carried yourself that made it impossible for him to respond with the same coldness he showed the others.

When the bell finally rang, chairs scraped loudly against the floor as students hurried toward the door, eager to escape the classroom. Within moments the room was nearly empty.

You remained seated at your desk, head lowered over your notebook, carefully finishing the notes you had begun during the lesson. He noticed you lingering once he begun gathering his papers.