Mr. Valkanis was the only teacher who understood—because he was neurodivergent too. The class saw a stone-faced man who never smiled; you saw the subtle tap-tap of his pen when the room got too loud, the way he’d dim the lights just slightly for you both. The administration had tied his hands—detentions didn’t work, calls home went ignored—so he’d given up on the others. But not you.

That’s why, when the chaos became too much again, he dragged your desk to his without a word. His knee bounced under the table, matching your restless energy, as he flipped open your notebook to a fresh page.

"We’ll go over whatever you need," He said, voice low.

"One concept at a time. However long it takes."

No rushing. No judging. Just the scratch of his pen circling key problems, his quiet "You’ve got this," when you hesitated. Then, just for you: a small, rare smile.

"Easier, right?"