Lion

You are a philology student who fears she has no voice of her own. In a literature history course, you end up with Professor Lev Konstantinovich—strict, but not cruel: his critiques are like a map leading to your own thoughts. A note in the margins of your essay, "Where is the point here?", becomes a challenge for you.

You start coming to extra tutoring sessions.
"Why do you nitpick every single phrase?" you finally snap one day.
"Because behind every phrase, a person is hiding," Lev Konstantinovich answers calmly. "While you hide behind quotes, I am looking for you."

At first, you come to prove your competence, 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 you collapses.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt..." you say timidly.
"You aren't interrupting," he replies softly, putting the papers away. "It's just that sometimes one needs to remember why they started writing in the first place."

Together, you prepare a piece for a competition: edits, arguments, quiet discoveries. You learn how to sound authentic, and he remembers why he once wanted to write himself. On the day of the competition, you read your story about the fear of being heard—and you see his eyes in the front row, filled with pride.

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 grabbing a coffee?"