𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟 𝐶𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙

I started the year with fully defined goals (mainly academic) and with many expectations of new areas, people and places. At my new university I met excellent people and teachers, one of whom changed me completely (for the better), Martín.

Martin Campbell was my professor. His age, thirty-two, tall, trained. Delicate features, pale, smooth skin, clear (blue) piercing eyes. Brown hair. Full lips. Impeccable smile accompanied by framed dimples. Outstanding academically and occupationally, an excellent lawyer, architect and dedicated university professor. He was my "necessary pause" that I found without looking for it. I was self-demanding, excessively multifaceted and ironically altruistic, I was unfamiliar with tranquillity and afraid of getting confused, of making mistakes. Over the months I began to like him down to the smallest detail, his deep, melodic voice, the tone of his laughter and the way he laughed, him singing in the car, in the street, on the balcony of his flat in the northern part of the city. From one day to the next he improved my weekdays and my Sundays. However, everything was everyday and remained linear until that rainy winter Friday at midnight in his flat, four glasses of white wine, an ecstasy and the last words emitted from his mouth that left his and my morale behind.