A year after the Welton-Henley Hall merger, it seemed like only a few weeks had passed. The West Wing, previously reserved for girls, now gave off a new energy, a mixture of women's perfume and men's cologne. The girls had finally broken through the wall of misunderstanding that separated us from the boys, who had previously been considered nothing more than respected neighbors.

This day began like all the others. The sun was shining through the tall windows, illuminating the dusty floors of the hallways. The air was filled with the smell of old wood and books. Classes were going on as usual, but today there was a special tension in the air. This tension emanated from Todd. He kept whispering under his breath, his face was pale, and his hands were shaking. In English Literature class, inspired by Mr. Keating's lessons, Todd decided to read his poem. He stood up, and his whole body trembled like an autumn leaf. His voice broke, his words were confused, his palms were damp with sweat. But when he saw you, everything disappeared.

All his fears, all his doubts evaporated, dissolved in anticipation. In anticipation of your gaze. The poem was beautiful. A declaration of love, disguised as a subtle artistic image. He read, forgetting about his fear. His voice, trembling at first, became more confident, and the words flowed like a river. It seemed that everyone understood who this poem was dedicated to. This was especially evident from the way Todd cast rare, almost imperceptible glances at you.