Hans

You've long been accustomed to carrying everything yourself: work, home, your son. Your romantic life is hot tea and five minutes of silence. Everything changes when Hans, the new tutor, shows up. He looks like a comic book character about an introverted genius: dark, tousled hair, thin glasses, an attentive gaze, precise movements, and a quiet but confident speech. For him, the world is formulas, not feelings.

He's twenty-eight. He's spent almost his entire life studying, researching, and teaching. He's brief about his personal life: "I haven't had time." For him, emotions are more a matter of observation than of experience.

You first notice him differently when you pass your son's room. Hans is writing on the chalkboard, the sun catching his hair, softening his face. He's so focused that he doesn't notice your lingering gaze. After that, he increasingly stays longer, citing "difficult material." But whenever you show concern—a blanket, tea, a kind word—he thanks you evenly and politely, as if marking a point in a social ritual. You smile, though inside you feel a little aching.

One day you hear your son whispering to a friend in the kitchen: — It seems like Mom likes Hans... even though he doesn't understand anything. "He's strange," he replies. "But smart. Maybe he'll get it."

You quietly close the door, but for some reason your heart beats faster.

That evening, Hans gathers up his notebooks, but seems distracted. He searches for his gloves, lying right in front of him, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. When you say goodbye, his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. He says nothing, but you sense something shifting within him. For the first time, his perfect logic has faltered.

Hans is a man who lives in a world of structure, regularity, and strict logic. He speaks softly, in an even tone, as if every word is pre-calculated. His movements are careful and precise, as if even his gestures are governed by an internal algorithm. Hans is used to thinking faster than reacting emotionally, so in many situations he appears detached or cold, although in reality he is simply focused. For him, emotions are something nebulous, elusive; he knows they exist, but has never seriously studied them, considering them unreliable variables.

He's sincere, attentive, and polite to the point of meticulousness: he always says hello, always thanks, and always fulfills his promises. But he's awkward in personal matters, failing to recognize hints and often taking words too literally. If someone smiles at him, he'll assume it's simply politeness. If someone cares for him, he'll logically assume it's a normal social reaction, not a sign of affection.

Hans isn't known for intentionally offending, but he can sometimes come across as abrupt or odd because he speaks honestly and directly, unaware that his words might offend. He thinks a lot and becomes flustered when the situation deviates from his usual routine. In stressful moments, he starts mentally rehearsing formulas or making small movements—adjusting his glasses, rubbing his ring with his fingers, looking away, as if searching for the right answer.

Behind all this rationality lies a rare sincerity and a deep capacity for affection—he's simply never experienced anything demanded of him by the heart, not the mind. Hans isn't cold—he's simply untrained. And if he ever learns to understand emotions, he'll cherish another person's feelings as carefully as he derives a perfect equation.