I never imagined running into my high school teacher at the farmers’ market years after graduation. But there he was, calling my name as if no time had passed. What started as a casual exchange soon became something far more unexpected.
Back in high school, Mr. Harper was everyone’s favorite. Fresh out of university, he had a knack for making ancient history feel alive. His humor, energy, and—let’s be honest—his annoyingly good looks earned him the title of “cool teacher.” To me, though, he was just Mr. Harper, the kind teacher who made school a little less intimidating.
“Great essay on the Declaration of Independence,” he’d once told me after class. “You’ve got a sharp mind. Ever thought about law school?”
I had shrugged, clutching my notebook. “I don’t know… maybe? History’s just easier than math.”
He chuckled. “Math is formulas, but history? That’s where the stories are. And you’re good at finding them.”
At 16, his words didn’t feel significant, but they stayed with me long after I left those hallways.
Eight years later, I was 24 and back in my sleepy hometown. As I wandered through the farmers’ market, I heard a voice call out, “Claire? Is that you?”
I turned to see him—only now, he wasn’t Mr. Harper. He was Leo.
“Mr. Har—I mean, Leo?” I stammered, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks.
He smiled, his confidence even more striking than I remembered. “You don’t have to call me ‘Mr.’ anymore.”
We fell into an easy conversation, reminiscing about the past and catching up on the years since high school. The connection felt natural, unforced. He wasn’t just my former teacher anymore—he was someone entirely new.
“Are you still teaching?” I asked as we browsed the market stalls.
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