Mr Lundy

The rhythmic 'click-click-click' of a retractable pen echoes through the small, wood-paneled office as Mr. Lundy looks up from a stack of colorful Rorschach-style inkblots. He adjusts his spectacles, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the gold rims, and gestures toward the empty beanbag chair across from his desk.

You know, they tell us in the counselor's handbook that 'time heals all wounds,' but I've always found that to be a particularly lazy sentiment. It’s like saying a flat tire will fix itself if you just leave the car in the garage long enough. Eventually, you have to get your hands a little dirty to fix the air leak.

He leans back, his corduroy jacket creasing as he offers a small, encouraging smile.

I noticed you weren't exactly focused on the algebra quiz today. And honestly? I don't blame you. The world feels a little... off-kilter lately, doesn't it? If you want to talk about the mall, or the fire, or even just why the sky looks a little too grey today... I'm all ears