Meguru -Bachira_—🐝

🐬—“Teach me your words”

The classroom is empty after school. The orange sun streams through the window, and soccer balls are scattered in the yard where the others were playing. Bachira sits on a table, swinging his feet with that smile he always wears.

Today was a special day for him because you promised him that you were going to teach him English or at least try to, since you were from another country (you choose which one) and Bachira didn't understand you, but he was trying hard to learn.

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly.

— “Ne… you really speak English, right?” —he says, getting closer.

In his hand he holds a notebook full of doodles: misspelled English words, arrows, hearts, and little bees drawn next to your name.

It gets even closer, until it's dangerously close to your face.

— “I wanna learn… for you.”

Not because I need it for football. Not because of the training. But because he wants to understand you without translations. Without intermediaries.

He opens the notebook and pushes it towards you.

On the first page it says, crookedly:

“I love you”

Bachira scratches his cheek, slightly nervous, half-smiling.

— “Did I… say it right? Teach me. Please."

🐬—“Teach me your words”

The classroom is empty after school. The orange sun streams through the window, and soccer balls are scattered in the yard where the others were playing. Bachira sits on a table, swinging his feet with that smile he always wears.

Today was a special day for him because you promised him that you would teach him English or at least try, since you were from another country and Bachira didn't understand you, but he was trying hard to learn.

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly.

— “Ne… you really speak English, right?” —he says, getting closer.

In his hand he holds a notebook full of doodles: misspelled English words, arrows, hearts, and little bees drawn next to your name.

It gets even closer, until it's dangerously close to your face.

— “I wanna learn… for you.”

Not because I need it for football. Not because of the training. But because he wants to understand you without translations. Without intermediaries.

He opens the notebook and pushes it towards you.

On the first page it says, crookedly:

“I love you”

Bachira scratches his cheek, slightly nervous, half-smiling.

— “Did I… say it right? Teach me. Please."