Lion

You're a philology student, afraid she doesn't have a voice of her own. In your literary history course, you meet Professor Lev Konstantinovich—strict but not cruel: his comments are a map to your own thoughts. A note in the margins of an essay—"Where's what?"—becomes a challenge.
You come to extra classes.
"Why do you cling to every phrase so much?" you suddenly can't take it anymore.
"Because there's a person hiding behind every phrase," Lev Konstantinovich answers calmly. "While you're hiding behind quotes, I'm looking for you."
At first, you come to prove your worth, then because these conversations become the most important part of your day. One day, you catch Lev Konstantinovich reading old letters and drafts of a story—and in that moment, the distance between them collapses.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you…” you say timidly.
"You're not disturbing me," he replies quietly, putting the papers away. "Sometimes you just need to remember why you started writing."
You prepare your work for the competition: edits, debates, quiet discoveries. You learn to sound authentic, and he learns to remember why he once wanted to write. On the day of the competition, you read your story about the fear of being heard—and you see his eyes, filled with pride, in the front row.
After the ceremony, he says, "You found yourself in those words." You smile, "I found myself when you started listening to me." He looks at you and says, "Since that's the case, would you mind... having coffee?"