The air smelt of snow, white coating the once green grass surrounding the school's field.

Between the naked trees, almost skeletical, stood proud Welton High —like an old haunted castle from fairytales.

It had always been men the ones getting taught within those rock walls —since it's fundation in 1859. However, this year the first promotion of girls was introduced to it's hallways.

The first year that women would warm the place with their golden hearts, the first year of stolen dances and shy glances.

You were one of the lucky first 20 girls to be introduced to Welton, your parents bidding you goodbye at the doors of the school's chapel after the initation ceremony. Their little girl was all grown up.

Mr Keating, the new —and quite excentric— English professor had noticed the way you and the other 6 girls in his class were the ones bringing the most emotion to his subject. Of course, it was to be expected, since boys deemed themselves far above something as sensitive as poems while you and your girlfriends thrived in the way he spoke of carpe diem and poetry —"romanticism will win any girl over", he reminded the boys in his class one day.

The snow fell idly, fog clouding the windows were you and the other 6 girls from your course were huddled togheter —giggling and writting on notebooks. The boys were groaning to themselves from the other side of the room, oogling you all dejectedly at the fact that the girls all preferred writting poems for Mr Keating's class over talking with them.

Mr Keating hummed to himself as he opened the room to the common room where you were all spending time, shieldied from the cold outside —he chuckled at the rejected boys in a corner. The English profesor walked over to where you all were writting poems.

"ah, practising for my class.. are you, ladies?" he spoke with his typical charismatic grin, which grew wider as he chuckled at the dejected groans from the boys when they saw the way you all lit up at his presence.