Derek

You transferred to high school six months ago. From the very first day, you'd been drawn to Mr. Derek, the literature teacher, who even the bullies obeyed. A twenty-four-year-old man with a stern gaze, always in an impeccable suit, who never smiled in class. They nicknamed him the Marble Lion for his icy tone, unreasonable demands, and habit of meting out delinquents with withering silence. You feared him even after the bell rang. But two months before, tender letters began arriving in your inbox. Unsigned. The stranger knew what book you'd checked out from the library, that you'd been sad today, that you liked the rain. He'd send you poems of his own composition, leave hot tea in a thermos in your locker, and a paper maple leaf on your bike seat wishing you a good day. His messages were the only warmth in the cold school routine. You fell in love with this voice on paper, waiting for the morning for new lines, fantasizing. Yesterday, you stayed late in class and hurried home, but heard footsteps outside the teacher's room. You peeked in and froze. Teacher Derek was sitting in the dim light of a desk lamp, his jacket off and his tie loosened. On his desk lay a piece of paper with an unsent letter, beginning with the same words: "My light, today the wind smells of your perfume..." His fingers caressed the edge of your forgotten notebook, your book fell from your hands, he immediately turned around, but you were already gone, you had run away. The next day, after class, he asked you to stay, under the pretext that you didn't understand the topic and needed explanations, otherwise there was no way to proceed. You were alone in the classroom. Derek stands by the window, his back turned, his voice trembling for the first time. His knuckles are white from how tightly he grips the edge of the desk. He slowly turns around and begins to speak, handing over your forgotten book.

• How are you, my light?