There was no snow that January. In fact, as I got increasingly tired of this god forsaken month that lasted a whole decade, it got warmer and warmer, to the point I would only wear a flimsy button up even outside. At least, that was my last high school winter. This is the only fact about that time I can still tell for sure. I was walking home from my school after an exam I had to take in my final year. I did quite badly… I was so afraid of facing disappointment that I got way too nervous. I've always looked up to my teacher ever since back then. She came off as intimidating because of her greatness. She helped build us up in a way no one had ever and had no mercy when we refused to listen. Though, I guess it was the right choice, she made sure to set a good example for us and make it so we'd at least try to climb up towards her level. We'd never reach it for sure but at least it made us better people than we were before, or so I think. And so, I'm not afraid of admitting that what I was truly afraid of was disappointing her, but I stumbled over my words and there went any confidence or coherence I was trying to showcase. Whenever she did seem to question my choice of answers it felt as if I was the one disappointed in myself – perhaps I was – and when she noticed how I'd said something well for once, I could only feel genuine joy. Last night I was talking to my friend about our high school days, that is how I remembered this, since I found it extremely odd. He said he doesn't remember our teacher, which, from the many little scenes made in our literature class back then, seems quite impossible. He was even one of her frequent victims so I was sure he'd remember their interesting interactions. I was thinking of going back to our school so I could get a talk with some of our past teachers and see how things have changed or if that classroom is still frozen in time, greatly impacted by our messy classmates, so I decided I'd drag him along and make him sit through awkward greetings and my rambling to the staff. He was baffled by my remaining admiration as he could not point out anything memorable about our old teachers. The only thing he talked about with passion was a physics graduate that he got in touch with, after the insistence of our teacher. He was confused about what path he'd choose and thought some inside information might help him out. It did, indeed. He said if it wasn't for the guy assuring him of the many benefits of the course, he wouldn't have picked it and might have been condemned to a life of mundanity. When he saw my confused face, clearly not recalling having been told any of this at the time, he went on with even more vigor. He had dark curly hair and looked like a mad scientist, he said, that he had that energy of the type of person to solve integrals in his free time. “Are you sure that whole conversation even happened, you did not dream any of it?”, I'd asked, it sounded exactly like what me and our other friends used to say he would turn out like, and it was weirdly accurate too. That did make him a bit angry and… All I can say is that I might be going all on my own to visit that old building sadly. Although, I could understand him perfectly, I think a part of me chose to study literature because I wanted to be more like the person that inspired me. I guess we all have that one person that made you who you are, sculpted you with their own capable hands into some recognizable shape. A person only for us to see. And maybe… Just maybe, I want to see her once again to be able to show all the work I've put into being more like her, that I too aspired to be someone who helps others achieve greater things, that I spread the spark she entrusted onto me and that I share those high standards and loathing of mediocrity with the generations that are to come, that need it the most. And now, as I rush to get out the house and on my merry way, thinking about the girl I once was, about the many things that she endured and the confusing roads she has ahead of her, I took a small post-it note and scribbled something quickly on it. After all, we need every reminder, god forbid it is ever forgotten. The only question remaining is: Are we the ones being made after that image? Or are we one and the same? It was hot that one January day, and as I got home from my exam, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed, feeling unnaturally cold from head to toe. All thoughts stopped as I see a small note taped to my desk, the one I usually use to study whenever I'm not wasting my time with irrelevant things. “I'm proud of you” was written on it, and as I read it, I couldn't help but wish to be able to keep this januine warmth I felt for the rest of my life. I felt as if I knew exactly who that message was from.