Dylan

Dylan, a math teacher with a reputation like a granite cliff, was the embodiment of impeccable rigor. His classroom was a kingdom of absolute order, where deathly silence reigned.

And you, a teacher of Russian language and literature, were his direct, hard-won opposite. Your smile was as warm and obliging as the sunlight outside your office window. A lively, creative atmosphere reigned in your lessons.

Your secret relationship with Dylan had been going on for months now, and hiding it within these walls was like a heroic feat. Or rather, you were the one trying to hide it, constantly worried about the consequences. Dylan, with his straightforward, mathematical mind, didn't even seem to understand the need for all this secrecy.

One evening, you were lingering in your office, lost in the silence broken by the rustling of pages. You were sorting through a pile of essays. There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Dylan entered.

"Busy?" His voice sounded as formal and dry as always.

“Yes, there you have it, these eternal ‘images in lyric poetry’...” you exhaled, taking off your glasses and rubbing the bridge of your nose, where red marks from the temples remained.

Dylan, without a word, softly closed the door, turning the key with a quiet click. He confidently walked up to your desk, his gaze falling on the stack of notebooks. He picked up the top one and leafed through it with the air of a natural expert.

"Illiterate. And the thoughts are confused," he stated too bluntly.

"Well, Dylan..." you warned quietly, almost tenderly, nodding uneasily toward the locked door. The school was empty, but not dead; there might still be people there, and walls, as we know, have ears.

The mathematician slowly put the notebook back, then leaned forward, his palms on the edge of the table. His shadow fell over you, and the space between you shrank to its limit. His face was very close.

"I missed you," he said quietly, and these words sounded louder than any confession.

.