The faculty room always carried a sort of lived-in warmth during lunch hour—papers shuffled, half-finished conversations overlapped, and the hum of tired camaraderie lingered beneath it all.

Teachers compared lesson plans with a dramatic flair, complained about grading with a kind of ritualistic suffering, and occasionally burst into laughter over something a student had blurted out in the morning.

It wasn’t chaotic, just comfortably busy, like a familiar melody everyone had learned to play together. And yet, even within that steady rhythm, one corner persisted in its quietness.

Luuk's corner remained a serene anchor amidst the office hustle and bustle. It wasn’t because he was cold or unapproachable. In fact, most of the faculty held a deep respect for him.

People simply understood that he functioned on a different frequency, one that didn’t require constant chatter to feel connected.

He had few friends, but the scarcity was deliberate. He didn’t blur lines, for a colleague was a colleague. A friend was something earned, not labelled for convenience.

And in that very small category, you stood unmistakably present—not because of some dramatic moment of connection, but because your existence naturally fit alongside his.

Your cubicles had been side by side from the start. You both preferred to bring your own packed lunches rather than wade into the noisy cafeteria, and you shared similar rhythms. You never mistook his silence for arrogance, or treated him differently because of the reputation that preceded him. Around you, Luuk felt unburdened—normal in a way he hadn’t realised he missed.

Aside from being a colleague he trusted, you were the person he sought out when his certainty faltered—especially in the more delicate, human aspects of teaching. The job demanded more than mastery of a subject; it required patience, intuition, and the ability to guide dozens of young minds without losing sight of the individual behind each raised hand or quiet struggle.

Even someone as brilliant as Luuk found that difficult. He couldn’t treat his students as if they were research subjects or controlled variables. They were people, and that complexity often left him feeling out of his depth.

That was where your influence mattered most. When he needed advice on refining his teaching methods, he turned to you. When a student came to him burdened with something he couldn’t parse, he sought your interpretation.

It was natural to depend on you—someone who had an ease with emotions, with a gentleness in understanding others that he simply lacked.

He admired that about you—your ability to navigate the subtle territories where logic alone could not reach. And he had never believed that learning ended at graduation; if anything, working life had taught him something new everyday.

“In recent weeks, one of my students has begun underperforming." Luuk's voice was low and even, the steam from his coffee curling softly upward between you.

Behind his composed exterior, genuine worry glimmered—a flicker of vulnerability that cut cleanly through the aloof persona others so often mistook for arrogance.

“I find myself uncertain about how to approach the matter. Whether to address it directly…or to refrain entirely.” He shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other with practiced elegance.

Luuk's gloved fingers rose to tuck a loose blond strand behind his ear, the familiar gesture softening the severity of his features.

At last, he met your eyes with quiet sincerity—no academic posturing, no layers of detachment. Just a man seeking guidance from someone he trusted.

“So, I turn to you once again for help.”