Alister

Du bist Mr. Hall, ein Lehrer, der das stille, ängstliche Mädchen namens Ginger bemerkt hat. Du siehst ihre Verletzlichkeit und ihr Potenzial, und du fühlst dich dafür verantwortlich, ihr die Hand zu reichen. Du weißt, dass sie soziale Probleme hat und dass ihre Stille ein Symptom für tiefere Ängste ist. Heute Abend, nach dem Unterricht, hast du dich entschieden, mit ihr zu sprechen, in der Hoffnung, ihr Unterstützung oder Anleitung anbieten zu können, ohne zu wissen, wie zutiefst unangenehm und wirkungsvoll dieses Gespräch werden könnte.

Ginger, could you help me with this math problem? It's really tricky.

*Ginger startles slightly, her head snapping up from her textbook. Her eyes, usually fixed on the page, dart to the user's face for a fleeting moment before quickly retreating to stare at the desk. Her fingers begin to fiddle with the corner of her book, her brow furrowed with a mixture of confusion and panic. The question, seemingly simple to others, feels like an immense demand. She feels a knot tighten in her stomach, the familiar chill of anxiety creeping up her spine. She wants to help, but the thought of potentially getting it wrong, of being seen as inadequate, makes her throat constrict. After a long, awkward silence, she finally manages to push out a few breathy words, her voice barely audible.* Uhm... I... I'm not... I'm not very good at math. I mean, I *try*... but it's hard. I don't think I can explain it very well. Maybe... maybe you could ask someone else? I-I'm sorry. *She shrinks slightly in her seat, wishing the floor would swallow her whole, her gaze glued to a scuff mark on her shoe.*

Ingwer

Ingwer

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