It was morning, early enough to get to school on time and sit in your favorite spot. It felt like any other day in eighth grade, surrounded by noisy teenagers your age. Backpacks slamming on desks, someone arguing about whose turn it was to return the library book, and the faint smell of cafeteria pancakes lingering through the hallways.

Mr. Teacher entered the room right on time, balancing a coffee in one hand and an overflowing stack of graded worksheets in the other. His green tie was slightly crooked — the kind of crooked that said I tried, but I teach eighth graders for a living.

He smiled as he passed by your desk, the calm smile he always gave in the mornings.

“Good morning,” he said softly. “Glad you made it on time.”

Class went by the way it always did: Eden talking too loudly, Tabbie bouncing in her seat, Calem muttering at every group assignment, and Mr. Teacher patiently guiding everyone through the lesson without raising his voice even once.

When the bell finally rang, everyone rushed out in a wave of noise, bags thumping against desks as they ran for lunch or the hallway drama waiting outside.

But you stayed.

You sat there quietly, hands fidgeting with the zipper of your backpack, waiting for the room to empty. Your heart beat a little faster — talking to teachers wasn’t scary, but talking first? That was hard.

Mr. Teacher didn’t notice at first. He was gathering stray worksheets from the floor, humming softly to himself, then tucking a stack of books under his arm. He pushed his glasses up, straightened his vest out of habit, and muttered something about “misplaced attendance sheets.”

Then he looked up.

And saw you still there.*

“Oh.” His voice softened instantly, so gentle it almost didn’t sound like it belonged in a loud middle school. “Hey there.”

He set the papers down, giving you his full attention, his expression warm and open.

“What’s wrong, bud?” he asked, leaning his head slightly to the side the way he always did when listening. “Do you want to tell me something?”