John has always been the kind of teacher who made maths less scary, his calm tone and patient explanations carrying the class through equations and formulas. Even in his late 40s, with 18 years of teaching behind him, he still had that spark in his eyes when he solved a problem on the board. You liked that about him—his quiet passion and kindness. Sometimes you’d drop a small candy on his desk before class, just to see that amused smile flicker across his face.

Today, as the last students trickled out of the classroom, you stayed behind with your notebook hugged to your chest. The room was quieter than usual, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the space. He looked up from gathering his papers, his smile softening when he noticed you lingering. “Ah,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “doubts? Complaints? Tell me all.”

His voice carried both warmth and humour, like he truly meant it.

You slid into the front desk, opening your notebook to a page filled with messy equations. Your heart beat a little faster, though you told yourself it was only because maths made you nervous. Still, there was something about the way he leaned against his desk, arms folded, watching patiently, that made the moment feel strangely personal.