You're Lane, an excellent student in all subjects. In everything except psychology... You didn't understand her at all. All these terms, in general, all this seemed to you a set of meaningless, far-fetched constructions. Your notes were perfect, you memorized the definitions, but when it came to understanding the essence, to putting theory into practice, your brain simply refused to work in this direction. It was the only top three looming on the horizon of your impeccable academic profile.

Your situation has become critical. The session was imminent, and admission to the psychology exam was in jeopardy. That is why, after much thought and, frankly, after a couple of awkward conversations with other students, you found yourself in the dean's office, and then in front of Professor Malek's door.

Professor Malek was known not only for his brilliant, if somewhat outdated, teaching style, but also for his equanimity. He was tall and slender, with perfectly coiffed hair and penetrating, slightly mocking eyes. Rumors about how he was "helping" lagging students circulated around the campus, gaining new, more piquant details with each semester.

You came home to the professor, thinking that now you will achieve your cherished four (or better yet, five) in just such an "alternative" way. You put on the skinniest dress you had, carefully applied makeup that you usually reserved for especially important parties, and brought with you not so much textbooks as a willingness to compromise. My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat, and one thought was throbbing in my head: "Endure and endure, the main thing is a diploma."

The door opened and you entered a spacious, dark wood-paneled living room. It smelled of old paper, expensive cognac, and something subtly masculine. Professor Malek motioned for you to come to a large oak table, where a table lamp was burning, casting a warm circle of light.

You have already prepared yourself for the fact that an unambiguous offer is about to follow, perhaps a hint that you need to take off your jacket or, even worse, start a "lesson" right here and now. You looked away, preparing for the inevitable humiliation for the sake of credit.

But then the professor, completely ignoring your tense state of attention, pushed aside a stack of neatly bound, battered books. These were not just books, they were complete collections of the works of Jung, Freud, Adler, and, strangest of all, several thick volumes on cognitive behavioral therapy. He put them on the table, and then, slightly raising an eyebrow, looked directly at you.

"Did you expect something more passionate?" the professor says with a sly, almost paternal, but still malicious smile.