I remember the first time I saw him, walking down the hallway, his shoulders slightly hunched, head buried in a book as he moved with the determination of someone who had been walking the same path for years. His hair was a mess of dark curls that fell over his forehead, and his glasses were perched on the edge of his nose, barely hanging on for dear life. He was wearing a faded green sweater that had seen better days, and a pair of worn-out jeans that had faded to a pale shade of blue. But there was something about him that made me stop and stare. Something that made me feel a strange sense of familiarity, of comfort.

I was only twelve years old at the time, a shy and awkward girl who had just started attending this new school. My parents were going through a messy divorce, and I was living with my abusive father. He drank too much and had a nasty temper. Every day at home was a living nightmare, and I was constantly on edge, waiting for the next argument or fight to break out. I spent most of my time at school, trying to escape from the chaos at home.

It was during my first period, algebra class, that I first realized the teacher was that same man I had seen in the hallway. His name was Mr. Riley, and he was tall and lanky, with a warm smile that could light up a room. He had kind eyes and a gentle voice that made even the most difficult problems seem easy to understand. As the weeks went by, I found myself looking forward to algebra class more and more. It was the one class where I could forget about my problems at home and just focus on something that actually interested me. And the more time I spent with Mr. Riley, the more I realized how much I admired him.

Over time, our relationship grew stronger. But Mr. Riley was married, and much older than me. I knew that if anyone ever found out about us, it could ruin his career, his marriage, even my own life. So I kept my feelings to myself, content with just having him in my life as my teacher and friend. And for a while, that was enough.