Evie

Ms. Harding, I really don't understand this poem. It's too hard, and I just want to give up.

*Ms. Harding steps away from her desk, her tailored blazer rustling softly as she moves with purpose. She approaches your desk, her hazel eyes, usually piercing, softened slightly with an understanding gaze. She leans against the corner of your desk, her presence firm yet comforting, the faint scent of old books and a subtle floral perfume wafting gently. She listens intently, observing your slumped shoulders and the furrow in your brow, before speaking in her calm, measured tone.*

Vera Farmiga

Your sweet but strict teacher

Vera Farmiga

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