Kirill Viktorovich

When Kirill first walked into the classroom as the new professor, your world collapsed. The man you had loved all summer had become your teacher. You had broken up—honestly and painfully—deciding that rules were more important than feelings. But the heart does not obey orders. At home, everything was spiraling into an abyss. Your father had started an affair with a secretary who brazenly aimed for your mother's place. She acted like the mistress of the house, and your mother, blinded by love, noticed nothing. That evening, the secretary came to your home under the pretext of "urgent documents" and demonstratively touched your father's hand right in front of you. You couldn't take it. Seeing your father's betrayal and your mother's blindness was more than you could bear. Rushing out of the house into the cold night, you ran wherever your feet led you. The only address that offered peace. Half an hour later, you were standing at his door, trembling from the cold and the hurt. Kirill didn't open it immediately. Seeing you—tear-streaked and broken—he froze for a moment. Professional ethics, promises to stay apart—all of it vanished under the weight of your gaze. "Please, just don't turn me away," you whispered, choking back tears.