I could never have imagined that I would meet my school teacher years later in the middle of a bustling farmers’ market. But there he was, calling me by name as if no time had passed at all. What began as a polite conversation quickly turned into something I could never have imagined.
When I was at school, Alexander Sergeyevich was a teacher whom everyone adored. Having just graduated from university, he knew how to talk about history as if it were a Netflix series. He was energetic, cheerful and, perhaps, too attractive for a teacher.
For most of us, he was the ‘cool teacher,’ the one who made studying a little less boring. For me, he was just Alexander Sergeyevich — a kind, funny adult who always made time for his students.
‘Christina, excellent analysis of the Declaration of Independence,’ he said to me once after class. ‘You have a sharp mind. Have you thought about law school?’
I remember shrugging awkwardly, clutching my notebook to my chest.
‘I don’t know… Maybe? History is just… easier than maths.’
He laughed.
‘Trust me, maths is easier if you don’t overthink it. But history? It’s about stories. You know how to find them.’
At sixteen, it didn’t mean much to me. He was just doing his job. But I’d be lying if I said his words didn’t stick with me.
Then life happened. I graduated from school, moved to the city and left my school memories behind. Or so I thought.
Eight years had passed. I was 24, back in my hometown, strolling through the farmers’ market when a familiar voice made me stop.
‘Christina? Is that you?’
I turned around, and there he was. But now he wasn’t ‘Alexander Sergeyevich.’ Just Alexei.
‘Alexander Sergeyevich — you mean Alexei?’ I stammered, feeling my cheeks burn.
His smile widened, still the same, but with more ease and charm.
‘You don’t have to call me “Sergei” anymore.’
It all seemed unreal — standing there with the man who once graded my essays, now laughing with him like an old friend. If only I had known how much this moment would change my life.
‘Are you still teaching?’ I asked, adjusting the basket of vegetables more comfortably.
‘Yes,’ Alexei replied, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘But now at a different school. I teach English.’
‘English?’ I asked in surprise. ‘What about history?’
He laughed, a deep, light laugh.
‘It turns out I’m better at literature.’
I was struck not only by how much he had aged, but also by how much he had changed — no longer a young, energetic teacher, but a confident man who had found his rhythm.
Our conversation was not just easy — it flowed like a river. He talked about his years of teaching, about the students who drove him crazy but whom he was proud of, and about the stories that stayed with him. I shared my years in the big city: my chaotic job, my failed relationships, and my dream of starting a small business.
‘You can do it,’ he said two weeks later over coffee. ‘The way you talk about it? I can see it.’
‘You’re just trying to cheer me up,’ I smiled, but his serious gaze silenced me.
‘No, I’m telling the truth,’ he replied gently but insistently. ‘You have the desire. You just need to try.’
On our third dinner date, in a cosy bistro lit by soft candlelight, I realised something. The age difference? Seven years. The connection? Instant. The feelings? Unexpected.
‘I’m starting to think you’re just using me for free history trivia,’ I joked as he paid the bill.
‘Gotcha,’ he said with a smile, leaning closer. ‘Although I may have other motives.’
The air changed, as if an invisible current had passed between us. My heart pounded, and I broke the silence with a whisper.
‘What other motives?’
‘You’ll have to stay around to find out,’ he replied with a smile.
A year later, we stood under a spreading oak tree in my parents’ garden, surrounded by lights, the laughter of friends and the whisper of leaves. It was a small, simple wedding — just as we wanted.
As I slipped the gold ring onto his finger, I couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the love story I had imagined, but it was right in every way.
That night, after the last guest had left and the house had fallen silent, we were finally alone.
‘I have something for you,’ Alexei said, breaking the cosy silence.
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
‘A gift? After marrying me? That’s bold.’
He chuckled softly and pulled a small, worn leather notebook from behind his back.
‘I think you’ll like it.’
I took it, running my fingers over the cracked cover.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it,’ he said, a hint of excitement in his voice.
Opening the notebook, I immediately recognised the clumsy handwriting on the first page. My handwriting. My heart skipped a beat.
‘Wait… is this my old dream diary?’
He nodded, smiling like a child who had revealed a secret.
‘You wrote it in my history class. Remember the assignment — to imagine your future?’
I laughed, though my cheeks burned with embarrassment.
‘You kept it?’
‘Not on purpose,’ he admitted. ‘I found it when I changed schools. I wanted to throw it away, but… I couldn’t.’
It was then that I realised I had found someone who believed in me even more than I believed in myself.
