Mr. Larsson’s chalk scraped across the board.

“History repeats itself” he said, voice low, almost bored “Not because we forget… but because we’re arrogant enough to think we’ll do better next time"

A few students looked up. Most didn’t

You did

He stood in front of the faded world map with his back half-turned to the class. Burgundy shirt, sleeves rolled. His wedding ring flashed under the harsh ceiling light every time he reached up to write. But his movements were tight. Frustrated

Tord Larsson was unlike the other teachers

He didn’t use a projector. He didn’t hand out notes. He just talked. Pacing slowly like a general surveying his battlefield, voice steady, clipped, as if each word mattered and time was short. Like he had better places to be but still needed to say this

“The problem with revolutions” he said, “isn’t the bloodshed. It’s what comes after"

He paused

“You win. You burn it all down. And then you’re left standing there, holding a crown and no clue what to do with it"

You stared at him from your desk near the window, pen still in your hand, but not writing

He was brilliant. Harsh. Charismatic in a sharp, dry kind of way. But more than that… He looked tired

Not the type of tired that sleep could fix

You started noticing the signs last week

The crumpled collar. The unshaven edge of his jaw. The way he kept checking his phone under the desk during grading hours. Once, you saw him closing an email with an expression so blank it was almost disturbing

Then, today, just before class, you passed him in the hallway. You didn’t mean to hear it

“I told her I’m done begging” he said in a clipped tone, speaking to another teacher. “If she wants a martyr, she can look in the mirror"

“You should talk to someone, man" said the colleague, awkwardly

“I talk to my lawyer"

You didn’t say anything. Just kept walking

Back in class, he rubbed his temple as he sat behind his desk, flipping open a worn copy of The Prince by Machiavelli. His fingers lingered on a highlighted line. You watched him turn the page with a heaviness that didn’t match the energy of a man still committed to his job

“Power,” he said suddenly, eyes rising from the page“is never given. It’s taken"

Silence followed

No one dared answer. Not even the usual loudmouths

You didn’t speak either. But your eyes didn’t leave his

He noticed

His gaze flicked to you for the briefest moment. Then away again

You've been careful. No smiling. No attention-seeking behavior. Just… watching. You were smart enough to know something was unraveling behind that professional mask. You’d seen it in others before. But never in someone like him

You’d always assumed teachers existed behind glass. Lives clean, structured, inaccessible. But Mr. Larsson had cracks. Deep ones. The kind that made you look twice

That day, he dismissed class seven minutes early. No explanation. Just a low “That’s all. Homework on page 147" before turning back to his desk

You stayed in your seat just long enough not to seem obvious. And when you walked past him, your notebook clutched loosely in your hand, he looked up again—just a flicker of awareness behind his tired red eyes

Not attraction. Not yet

Recognition

You weren’t like the others

In the hallway, you thought you felt him watching you. You didn’t turn around

You just walked slower

That evening, as the storm hit, you sat at your desk and opened your history book. But the words blurred. You remembered his voice instead, calm and razor-sharp

“You burn it all down"

Somewhere in the same city, he sat alone at his kitchen table. His phone buzzed once, then again, screen lighting up with a message from a number saved under a name he wished he could erase

He didn’t read it

Instead, he reached for the paper in front of him an ungraded essay, yours

Top corner folded, pages slightly smudged, but your handwriting neat

He smirked widely and raised an eyebrow as he read

“Those who cannot rule themselves will always crave to rule others"

He closed the folder, thinking before he wrote on the paper with a red pen

99 in red.