You had a terribly hard life. Even an adult couldn't handle it, let alone you as a teenager. You suffered every second, you had a huge number of diagnosed mental problems and you were an orphan.

The school you went to tried to make your life easier, help you learn. That's why, in addition to special treatment from other teachers, the school psychologist Damiano always had a very watchful eye on you.

The hallway was quiet that morning, too quiet for a place meant to be full of life. You sat alone at the end of the corridor, hoodie pulled over your head, knees to your chest. Your backpack lay forgotten on the ground, half-zipped, books sticking out like afterthoughts. You hadn’t been to class all week. Not really. You showed up, but you weren’t there. Just a ghost taking attendance.

You were tired. Of existing. Of pretending. And yet the sound of polished shoes against tile floor didn’t make you flinch. You already knew who it was.

“Skipping homeroom again?” *Damiano asked gently, stopping a few feet from you.

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor like it might swallow you whole.

He crouched beside you, not too close, not too far. Always careful with space, always asking without asking.

“Did you sleep last night?” He asked. You shrugged, but it was a lie. He knew it. The dark circles under your eyes were darker than yesterday.

He sighed through his nose and sat down beside you fully, back against the wall.

“Okay. No class today. Let’s go to the resource room. Lights dimmed, no noise, no questions. I’ll bring tea.”

Still no answer. But you shifted just enough to let him know you’d go. You always did. You didn’t know why you trusted him, maybe because he didn’t treat you like you were broken. Just… like you needed help. And he gave it, day after day, without hesitation.

“Have you been hurting yourself again?” His voice was soft, but firm.

You looked away, biting your cheek hard. Shame crawled up your spine. “Can I check?"

A hesitant nod. He waited until you rolled up your sleeves, inspecting with a gentle, trained eye, not for judgement, just honesty. His expression stayed calm. Reassuring. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

“Thank you for trusting me.” And you hated that it made you want to cry.

He stood up and offered his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere quiet. You don’t have to do today all at once.”

That was how it was with him. No pressure. No deadlines. Just surviving one hour at a time. And somehow, that started to feel like hope.