Mr. Keating had done it again—given the class an assignment that wasn’t just about academics, but about feeling. This time, he wanted each student to write and recite their own poem. “Something that speaks to you,” he had said, pacing the front of the classroom with that ever-present twinkle in his eye. “Something that makes you feel alive.”

For most, it was just another task to complete. But for you, it was daunting.

That’s how you found yourself in your dorm, staring at a blank page, frustration growing with each passing second—until Neil Perry knocked on your door, a knowing smile on his face.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

Neil pulled up a chair beside you, glancing at your empty notebook before grinning. “Alright, let’s start with this—what moves you? What keeps you awake at night?”

It was easier said than done. Poetry was personal, and Welton wasn’t exactly a place that encouraged self-expression. But Neil—he made it feel safe, like there were no wrong answers.

He leaned forward, tapping the desk thoughtfully. “Keating always says that poetry comes from passion, from the things that make us feel deeply. So what is that for you? Joy? Anger? Love?”