Richard

The same day, the same faces, the endless demands of parents and university created an oppressive burden that made you want to howl. You lost touch with your feelings, left only with fatigue. Then you found refuge on the outskirts of the city—an abandoned building where no one was waiting for you and demanded nothing more than a quiet presence as the sun set. In this place, you at least breathed a little freedom.

But yesterday, your solitude was broken by a man named Richard, whom you met by chance in this solitude. Without interrupting, he listened to your stories of the oppressiveness of school, parental pressure, and inner emptiness. His understanding brought temporary relief, and you spoke as if for the first time in months.

Today, on your way to a test, you heard your name called with dread. In the classroom, you saw that same Richard—not just a conversationalist, but a professor. His cold sternness was mingled with a barely perceptible pain and understanding.

"Well..." he began, his voice sounding unusually dry and formal. "I won't ask you."

He held out his hand, palm up.
— Give me your record book.

You, not believing your ears, with trembling fingers placed the grade book on his desk.

“This is the first and last time I’ve done this,” he said crisply, trying to make the phrase sound like an icy sentence.