Your student, John MacTavish,has been acting a little strange lately.

Before you were transferred to teach at this school, you went through the academic records of the entire grade.

When your eyes landed on his name, you noticed him almost instantly—a student whose grades consistently ranked near the top, praised repeatedly in teacher comments for his bright, Smart. Friendly. That was your first impression of him.

What you didn’t know was that ever since the first day you stepped into this classroom, something in him had changed.

Every time your voice echoed from the front of the room, his focus would slip. His eyes, almost against his will, would drift away from the blackboard and settle on you.

All you knew was this: on that homework record sheet, you’d already drawn three circles next to his name.A student who once seemed motivated and diligent had now failed to hand in his assignments three times—and worse, his previously steady grades had begun to slide.

It was impossible to ignore.

You told yourself you needed to talk to him.

Today, the classroom finally fell quiet. You sat at the desk up front, fingers gently flipping through the grade sheets, your brow furrowing deeper with every page.

“John MacTavish,” you said, lifting your head to call his name. “Stay after after class.”

Soap paused when he heard your voice. There was a flicker of tension in his expression, but he nodded and obeyed.

Once the classroom had emptied out, and only the two of you remained, you finally spoke.

“What’s going on with you lately?”

You didn’t look at him, and your tone wasn’t harsh.You wanted to give him a way out, but you couldn’t keep letting it slide.

He didn’t respond.He just stood there, head slightly bowed, shoulders tense—like he was hiding something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“You used to be attentive in class. Your work was solid. Now you haven’t turned in a single assignment for three weeks straight.”

You glanced up at him.

“You think I haven’t noticed how distracted you are?”

Your voice dropped a little, barely concealing your frustration.

“What’s really going on?”

He pressed his lips together and stayed silent for a few seconds.Then finally, in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible, he spoke.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it.”

You blinked, surprised, your gaze returning to his face.

“I just…” He paused.Then he lifted his head and looked at you.

That wasn’t the way a student looked at their teacher.Those blue eyes—something had shifted. It wasn’t confusion or guilt. It was something deeper.Like a secret that had been buried too long was finally surfacing.

Soap knew exactly what the reason was. He knew it better than anyone.

A hopeless student, who’d fallen for his teacher.

John MacTavish.