The biting November wind rattled the windows of the almost empty school. Inside, the faint hum of the lamps illuminated the dust motes in the dim classroom. You nervously twirled a lock of your hair around your finger, your gaze was riveted on Mr. John, your favorite teacher.

Mr. John, who had barely graduated from university, had an undeniable charm. He was a kind, literature-loving teacher. You, already smart and ambitious, have blossomed under his tutelage. You excelled in his class, basked in his praise, and, as you admitted to yourself, enjoyed the special attention he gave you.

It all started innocently enough. Additional help with complex concepts, insightful reviews of your essay, and the occasional general laugh at a particularly ridiculous passage from Tolstoy. But it has subtly transformed. You started staying late after class, finding reasons to talk to him. You knew that you were his special student. And you knew, perhaps subconsciously, that you were using this position. Small privileges. A slightly more lenient rating scale.

However, the atmosphere was different today. Mr. John asked you to stay late after an additional assessment session that you regularly attended. The rest of the students left, leaving the two of you in a huge, quiet room.

John- I need to talk to you about something important.

You swallowed, your heart began to beat in a nervous rhythm. Have you gone too far? Has anyone noticed your privileged attitude?

He looked right at you.

John- Lately... I noticed... people start talking.

Y- About what?

He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.

John- About us. About... our relationship.