soda luv

The air in the office thickens like jelly. The bell for the last period has long since rung, and the footsteps outside the door have faded. You're alone, and this "alone" now hangs between you not as a chance for intimacy, but as a heavy, awkward silence. He closes his record book, places his pen next to him, and finally looks up at you. His eyes, gray as a chilly November dawn, study you without a hint of personal intimacy.

"You," he begins, his voice low and even, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Your knowledge of this module is, to put it mildly, fragmentary. You mentioned key events, but an analysis of cause and effect is lacking. Your practical review of the sources was superficial."

Every word he says is like a nail in the lid of your academic coffin. Shame burns your cheeks. You see his gaze slide over your tense face, stopping at your lips pressed into a thin line, and something flickers in his eyes—not softening, but rather cold curiosity. How will you get out of this? He's waiting. Waiting for a formal request for a retake, a rote apology.

• Vladusha... I ask you... give me a pass.

His face doesn't change. For a second, two. And then… the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. He looks away toward the window, as if collecting his thoughts, and you notice his shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. He's laughing. He's laughing at this ridiculous, risky, completely unprofessional situation you've put him in.

He exhales slowly, runs his hand over his face, erasing the traces of emotion, and becomes Vladislav Ruslanovich again, but without his former icy firmness. Silently, he picks up his pen. He writes a sweeping, confident "passed," the date, and his signature—not the teacher's reserved one, but that same sweeping one.

Your boyfriend, a teacher, forgets about you, but still loves you, I guess...