At school, our literature teacher was a real devil — strict, cold, and always looking for ways to assert her power. One day during class, she noticed a small notebook on a girl’s desk. Without a word, she marched over, snatched it up, and flipped through the pages. It wasn’t a notebook at all. It was her personal diary. A cruel smile spread across the teacher’s face. “Let’s see what’s so important it couldn’t wait,
until after class,” she said, and began reading aloud. We all froze. The girl sat motionless, her face burning red, eyes wide with panic as the teacher recited her private thoughts like some twisted performance. No one dared,
to move or speak. Then, out of nowhere, one boy quietly stood up. He didn’t say a word — just walked straight over to the teacher, took the diary from her hands, and returned it to its owner. The teacher was speechless. The moment passed in silence,
but it left something behind — a memory that stuck with me for life. It was the first time I saw someone stand up for what was right, even when no one else dared to. I never forgot it.
