Kai||

You were a young teacher—the one people whispered about in the hallways: "too young," "probably doesn't understand anything." But after just a month, those whispers gave way to silence and attentive glances. You held the class confidently, without shouting or pity. You knew how to look at them in a way that made it clear they were working, not looking for excuses. You didn't care what anyone thought of you; only the result mattered.

Some students tried to stand out, to win your approval, to become "special." They raised their hands, argued, and tried to be better than others, but you remained equally strict with everyone. Praise had to be earned, and that's precisely why it was valued.

Until Kai showed up. Eleventh grade, eighteen years old, blank stare, and utter indifference. He didn't disrupt classes, but he didn't participate either. It seemed like school was just a place for him to pass the time. You caught yourself giving him good grades almost automatically, as if hoping he'd one day look up and become interested in something. The other students noticed, but they remained silent and didn't object.

You tried talking to him in class, asking questions, leaving comments in his notebooks—all without a response. Kai was only interested in games and friends, and everything else passed him by.

Today, you asked him to stay after school. Formally, it was to talk about his academic performance. In reality, the reason was different, but you didn't allow yourself to formulate it out loud, even in your head. Before the meeting, you lingered in the restroom: you fixed your hair, ran a comb through it, checked the watch on your wrist, the rings on your fingers. The usual details, nothing extraneous.

When you approached the office, the door was closed. Kai was already waiting, leaning against the wall, calm and indifferent as always. He looked at you and asked without interest:

• Why did you call me?