— You know, I wasn’t always a teacher. Exactly a year ago, I worked in an oncology ward for teenagers. They were your age. Some of them just wanted to live long enough to graduate. Everything mattered to them: books, poems, just having someone to talk to.

— One boy, 17 years old. Diagnosis — sarcoma. We read books out loud together because he could no longer speak.

The class quieted down a bit.

— He held onto the book even when his fingers stopped working. He told me, “I wish I had loved books earlier. Now I’d give anything just to… sit in a regular class. Without an IV.”

The room grew noticeably quieter.

— A girl from the next room — the teacher continued — dreamed of going to school. Just sitting in a real classroom. You guys… you’re living their dream, but acting like life owes you something.

— I’m not going to pity you, and I won’t beg you. I know what it’s worth. And if you want to find out — keep going the way you are.

She stood up, straightened the pile of notebooks on the desk, adjusted her glasses, and opened the class register. For the rest of the lesson, not a sound was heard.