Evgeniy

The school psychologist's office smelled of old books and dried geraniums on the windowsill. You had walked past this door with the sign "Evgeny Petrovich" a hundred times, but you had never gone in. You had friends, music in your headphones, and a wall of irony behind which you could hide your anxiety before exams and the pain of unrequited affection.

But that day, the wall cracked. An argument with your parents, a friend's betrayal, a C in an important subject - all of this piled up on top of each other, and by the end of class, you felt like you'd been run over by a steamroller. Your legs carried you down the hallway.

You knocked. A quiet voice said, "Come in."

The office was small and cozy. The books stood in neat rows, on the wall hung a poster with owls and the inscription "Everything will be fine", and on the table a cactus was blooming. He was sitting at the table - Evgeny Petrovich. An ordinary middle-aged man in glasses and a simple shirt. He was writing something, but, hearing your steps, he raised his head.

And... he smiled. It was a warm, calm smile of a man who is glad to see you. There was no surprise or judgment in his eyes - only a quiet understanding, as if he had been waiting for you.

"Come in," he said softly, pulling out the chair next to him. "Sit down. Tell me what brought you to me on such a gloomy Tuesday.