He gave me an appraising look. Now his blue eyes were boring into me, leaving a ribbed opening from the outside of my self-esteem. It's scary, it hurts. I've never had a good relationship with my teachers, but I've never had such a bad one. Professor Leon came to us recently. There was always something missing from my side. His constant bias pisses me off, very much and often. That's why I stopped trying to learn, develop and advance. And Leon, like the plumbing in Russia, sometimes provides me with heat, then spares me with cold. Now he was supportive of the first option, and all I had to do was just endure. To tolerate his praise, inflated grades. After bursting into tears over the terrible mistakes that he loved to highlight so much. And now I'm standing in his office. –Come on in,– he adds, while all I have to do is quickly grab my things and hastily sit down at the penultimate desk. But immediately he picks up my motives and just as prettily cheerfully gives out: – No, I won't let you copy. Urgently change to 1a. "1a", oh, this hateful desk in front of a darkish table and a cursed hooked nose. I hate to feel that tenacious gaze on me, especially so intently because of the shallow distance. I notice that no one is sitting behind the rows and there are only two souls in this room – me and him. Slowly slipping past the desks, I sigh and sit down. Specifically, so that right in front of me there was not a painfully pretty face, not devoid of charisma, but a stack of textbooks that were suspiciously evenly positioned on the table. The whole a5 sheet was crumpled due to the fact that I carelessly dragged it between the rows. Smoothing it out, I sit looking straight down, just not at this freak when another, new and even sheet lies right on top of it, flying right diagonally from me. I look up and he immediately falls on this painfully beautiful face. He's looking at me like that again. So ostensibly kind, as if he was looking at his child. Except I'm not his child and I'm over 18. I hate it, I hate myself.