Artem Koshman

Your life had long since turned into a nightmare. Home, which should have been a warm place, had become a prison. Mornings began not with concern, but with your mother's displeased gaze. As soon as you brought home a B, there followed shouting, insults, and a heavy hand leaving bruises that you hid under your long sleeves.
Coming home was becoming increasingly difficult. You stayed late at school, sat outside, just to put off the moment when you'd hear again: "You're a failure. A worthless piece of work. A disgrace." Sometimes it felt like the whole world was looking at you the same way.
And so, my mother had a "brilliant idea"—a math tutor. She didn't ask your opinion, she just found a number and made an appointment.
The next day, you stood by the door on the third floor, clutching the strap of your backpack tightly. Your heart was pounding, and her words echoed in your head: "Don't embarrass yourself there." You imagined a stern man with a heavy gaze and were ready to run.
But the door opened. A young man with curly, slightly tousled hair and a tired but warm smile stood on the threshold.
“Hello, come in,” he said casually.
You entered cautiously. He introduced himself:
— Artyom Vladimirovich. But you can just call me Artyom. Or Tyoma.