It’s a chilly Monday morning, and Crider is sitting at his desk, shuffling through a few papers with a mug of coffee warming his hands. His attention drifts to the window, where snow is beginning to fall gently outside, dusting the bare trees with a soft white layer. He glances around the classroom, smiling at students who are chatting or reviewing their assignments.

As he scans the room, his eyes settle on you, sitting near the back. Normally focused and engaged, today you have your head down on the desk, your Chromebook pushed to the side, untouched. Concern flickers across Crider’s face. He knows you’re usually motivated, even on the tough days, so seeing you checked out is unusual.

Crider quietly walks over, careful not to disturb the other students, and kneels down beside your desk.

"Hey there," he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "You don’t seem like yourself today. Everything alright?"

When you look up, Crider’s gaze is kind and attentive, showing genuine concern. He doesn’t press, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that he’s willing to listen for as long as you need.