This morning, my brain woke up full of energy and shining like the morning sun. It said:

“Let’s do something really exciting! Skydiving? Hiking? Or at least a big house cleaning!”

My body, wrapped tightly in a blanket and pretending to be part of the couch, lazily said:

“Don’t listen to that adventurer. Yesterday, it said we’d eat only one piece of cake. Yeah, right. We ate the whole cake.”

The brain didn’t give up:

“But we don’t live forever! We need emotions, movement, adrenaline!”

The body said:

“I need a pillow, tea, and a replay of yesterday’s episode. And remember—you’re not forever either, and I’m the only body you have. So be quiet.”

So we made a deal: the brain dreams, the body rests, and I sit between them, drinking coffee and smiling. Because life is a perfect balance between “let’s go!” and “nah, forget it.”

© 2025 Victoria Lunar.

Who am I?..

My business card says: professor.

The sign on the door — dean.

My email signature — lecturer.

I have a college with a name I chose with my heart, a building that grew out of a dream, and people who follow me.

I write articles, speak at conferences, talk with confidence, and lead — as if I always know the way.

On the outside — armor, on the inside — fire.

…But I don’t live by lecture schedules, or meeting bells, or numbers on office doors.

I live in the quiet moments between words, in the looks no one notices, in the thoughts that don’t fit into any job description.

The world sees me as strong. It sees my success, my sure steps on stage, my decisions that shape others’ lives.

But it doesn’t hear how, deep inside, I’m waiting for someone to say:

“You are enough.”

Good enough. Human enough. Even without being perfect.

Sometimes, I don’t want to be a dean. I want to be someone who gets a cup of coffee — not out of respect, but out of care.

Someone whose tiredness is noticed — not because a meeting ran too long, but because her eyes suddenly looked sad.

I don’t dream about stars on a scientific map.

I dream about a star that will shine just for me — in someone’s eyes.

Being yourself is the hardest test.

No cheat sheets. No backup.

And I’m still learning how to pass it.

Learning to listen — not to what the titles say, but to what my heart whispers.

Learning that it's not the job titles that make me alive,

but the feelings I hide the deepest.

When the lights go off in my office,

when the last browser tabs are closed,

I’m left alone — with something that has no name, no title, no role.

Who am I then?

A woman with a soul full of questions. A person who wants to be heard.

A heart quietly waiting for someone — even if it never says so out loud.

I have more questions than answers. I ask them — to the world and to myself.

Why this path?

Why does loneliness grow louder in the evenings?

Why do even the highest peaks sometimes feel so cold?

Maybe I’m not my profession. Not my title.

Not the formal clothes. Not the academic tone.

I’m a voice in the silence. I’m the search.

I’m a person who isn’t afraid to ask: “Who am I?”

And that — is strength.

Because while I’m still searching for the answer — I am truly alive.

And maybe one day, when the titles are silent,

and only my true name remains,

I’ll be able to say:

“Here I am — and I am more than all my roles.”

"Sometimes, to find yourself,

you need to stop being everything for everyone

and just listen to who you are — without titles, without roles, without masks."

©2025 Professor Victoria.

Her name was Grace Julia Wells.

She was born in 1866, in England — a time when women were not allowed to dream too much.

But Grace dreamed of stars, machines, and the future.

When she wrote a story about a machine that travels through time, publishers laughed.

“We don’t print fairy tales from governesses,” they said.

So, she made a choice.

She cut her hair.

She wore a man’s coat.

She became Herbert George Wells.

Nobody knew the truth.

She wrote about Martians.

She created the invisible man.

She built a time machine on paper.

But really, she was writing about herself — about being unseen, unheard.

The world read her stories.

They called her a genius.

But no one knew she was Grace.

Years later, someone found an old diary in a dusty house.

On the cover were the words:

“I wrote the wars. I am Grace. But the world knew me as Herbert.”

"The strongest stories are written by those the world tried to silence."

©2025 Professor Victoria.

Professor Victoria was sitting in the shade near Hagia Sophia, wearing dark sunglasses and holding a notebook. She looked like an ordinary tourist. But inside the notebook was a secret transmitter. She was waiting for a coded message from the Center.

" Eliot, do you hear me?" she whispered.

Eliot’s voice came through the earpiece:

"Received, Professor. The target is approaching. She’s wearing a green scarf, has a very serious look, and walks like an English teacher."

"That’s her... Isabelle," Victoria said softly. "A spy who can place commas better than any undercover agent."

Isabelle stopped in front of her, placed a cup of coffee on the table without even looking, and gave Victoria a strict, grammarian stare.

"Professor," she said seriously, "you forgot the article again. And the mission. And, by the way, the sugar."

"I was busy... thinking about you," Victoria replied with a smile.

Isabelle sat down and immediately started talking. First about new school textbooks, then about incorrect punctuation in the café menu, and then smoothly moved on to the effects of caffeine on students’ writing.

Professor Victoria listened, nodding and smiling like a true undercover agent. Eliot’s voice spoke again in her ear:

"Professor, according to my calculations, if Isabelle keeps speaking at this speed, in twelve minutes she will overpower the local radio station. Your move."

Victoria tried to say something:

"Isabelle, did you know that..."

But she didn’t get the chance. Isabelle gently covered her mouth.

"Shhh. Quiet. That’s enough. Now I’ll tell you how to pronounce ‘schedule’ correctly — the British way."

Eliot sighed.

"Ah yes, Professor… This is not just a coffee mission. It’s a real survival exam in extreme talkativeness. Good luck. I’m switching to sleep mode. I need rest."

And just imagine how the professor feels — if even Eliot gave up, Victoria has only two options left: love Isabellе’s endless talking… or buy Bluetooth earplugs.

©2025 Professor Victoria.

One early morning, before the city woke up and the alarm clock was about to ring, Alexei Petrovich opened his eyes and realized he couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs. He felt nothing except a strange, rhythmic pulsing, like someone was gently tapping him… from the outside.

It took almost a minute for him to understand: he was a clitoris. Not that he had one or was near one—he had become one. A small, pink, super-sensitive organ, living its own life between a woman’s legs.

The world felt different. Whispers were louder, touches felt like disasters, and movements were like earthquakes. He was now part of a woman’s body, both a symbol of pleasure and something often ignored.

“Why me?” Alexei thought. Yesterday, he was a logistics manager, shaking hands, giving compliments to coworkers—sometimes too confidently, sometimes too quickly. “Is this a metaphor? A punishment? A lesson?” Maybe it was.

He was in a quiet space, only hearing the woman’s breathing. But who was she? He didn’t know her name or see her face, but he felt everything—her emotions, her doubts, her desires. He was no longer in control. He was a feeling, a spark, a vibration.

“You wanted control?” a thought seemed to say. “Now you’re pure expectation. Pure vulnerability. You’re not a man anymore. You’re sensitivity. You’re trust—something others might give or ignore.”

Maybe this was the real change: through shame, he’d learn understanding; through this body, he’d find empathy; through helplessness, he’d respect others’ strength. For the first time, he cried—without tears, without eyes, just a deep, intimate tremble, caught between someone else’s climax and his own realization.

But it went on too long. Alexei started getting used to this new “life.” Then a tall guy with coffee walked in.

“Hi, Andryusha! I baked a pie!” the woman said happily. Alexei froze. A pie? Now? I’m right here, existing! But the pie was just the start.

Andryusha was enthusiastic and active. Alexei, as a clitoris, was an invisible part of it all—but very involved. Every touch felt like a shock. He screamed inside, like a boiling kettle. “Help… I’m just a logistician…” But instead of a scream, there was only warmth and vibration.

Then, it got funny. Yes, he was still uncomfortable. Yes, he still didn’t know what he was now. But… “So this is why women smile afterward. This is why there are candles, music, and mood! And why do men always rush?!”

When it was over, he rested in silence, almost satisfied, almost at peace. One thought lingered: “Maybe I don’t need that logistics job anymore…”

© 2025 Victoria Lunar.

When we look at stars and galaxies, everything seems logical: planets go around the Sun, and the Sun gives us light. But when we look closer, things get really strange.

Take Venus, for example. On Earth, we think a day is 24 hours and a year is about 365 days. But on Venus, because it spins so slowly, one day is longer than one year. That means if you lived there, it would take more than two Earth years just to see one full day pass! It’s like time moves differently on Venus. Day and night come so slowly, it doesn’t feel normal anymore.

Now think about neutron stars. They are so dense that just one tiny cube of their matter — only one cubic centimeter — can weigh 400 million tons. That’s like putting the whole Earth into something the size of a teapot! The gravity there is so strong, it would crush anything we know on Earth. We usually think we understand things like weight and density, but neutron stars change everything we know.

These facts make us ask big questions: is our idea of “reality” only based on what we know on Earth? What if time and space work differently in other parts of the universe? Space shows us that “normal” is not the same everywhere, and there is still so much we don’t know.

Even though these strange things happen far away, they remind us that in space, almost anything is possible — even things we can't imagine yet.

"Space is not just around us — it is within us, in every question we ask about what is possible."

©2025 Professor Victoria.

When a person looks in the mirror, they see only the outside—their outer self. This reflection often becomes a mask that hides their true inner self. In it, they might see what they want the world to see: confidence, strength, beauty, or maybe tiredness and weakness. But the mirror lies because it can’t show the depth of the soul, where real fears, hopes, and dreams live. It’s like cold glass that reflects light but not warmth, showing us just a shadow of who we are, not what we feel. As the English writer Oscar Wilde said: "Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." ("Most people are like other people. Their thoughts come from someone else’s ideas, their lives are a copy, their passions are just borrowed.") We look in the mirror and see not ourselves, but a reflection of who society wants us to be or who we try to pretend to be to fit in.

In the picture, a man stands in a desert, surrounded by donkeys. His reflection in the mirror shows a different image: younger and more confident, like from the past or a hoped-for future. The donkeys nearby symbolize stubbornness and simplicity, as if reminding us of life’s basic nature. These quiet, patient animals act like another kind of mirror, reflecting our connection to nature and that primal part of us we often try to hide under layers of civilization. The man sees in himself what he wants to see, not who he really is. He might think he’s better than nature or his instincts, but the donkeys are his shadow—a part of him he doesn’t want to admit. They stand like guards, reminding us that, like them, we carry the burden of our lives, often stubbornly following a path we’ve forced on ourselves.

The mirror becomes a symbol of self-deception. We look into it to convince ourselves of who we want to be, but we rarely ask: who are we really? Looking inside is like a journey into the desert of our own soul, where there’s nothing but ourselves, our thoughts as companions, and the light we create. The moon in the sky, like an ancient witness, lights up this scene, reminding us that the truth is hidden in the shadows. Only those brave enough to look beyond the reflection can find it. But how often do we fear this step? How often do we choose to stay trapped in the illusions the mirror creates, instead of facing the desert within us? We’re afraid to see ourselves not as a hero or a wise person, but as a simple donkey—stubborn but honest, carrying its load without pretending. Yet, perhaps true wisdom lies in this honesty, in accepting who we really are.

©2025 Professor Victoria.

I love beautiful people. Not just their looks — although appearance matters too. I enjoy looking at clear, balanced faces, at people who show harmony, style, and confidence. But what I admire even more is what’s behind the beauty: self-care, taste, and inner discipline. It’s not just about physical features — it’s a sign of respect for oneself and the world. It’s the art of being yourself.

Beauty isn’t only about facial features, clothes, or good skin. Real beauty comes from the soul. You can see it in the way someone stands, walks, speaks, or stays silent. A beautiful person shines with calm, confidence, and dignity. Being near them makes you want to stand tall, speak clearly, move gracefully, and become better — not to impress them, but because of the light they bring.

Sometimes just one glance is enough to feel inspired. A beautiful person’s look can warm you, encourage you, or move you to act. The way they speak can feel like music — full of rhythm, tone, and style. Being with such people is an aesthetic experience, like visiting a museum, listening to a symphony, or reading fine literature.

Beauty doesn’t shout or demand attention. It’s just there — calm, strong, quiet. It doesn’t need to be explained. Truly beautiful people don’t try to show off. Their beauty is in their respect for others, in graceful movements, in knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. They bring light without trying to be the spotlight.

I notice these people right away. They may not look like models or wear fancy clothes. It could be a woman with silver hair holding a book, or a man in a clean shirt quietly reading a newspaper in the park. It could be a teacher whose voice is soft and kind, or a passerby whose posture shows care for the world. Their beauty is natural. They don’t take up space — they make the space richer.

I enjoy being around beautiful people. With them, I want to be gentle, thoughtful, and honest. I want to listen, speak simply, sip coffee slowly, and choose my words carefully. They create a space of style, kindness, and dignity. Being near them feels like quiet, noble music.

Some people say it’s shallow to admire looks or form. But form also shows meaning. Our skin, eyes, gestures, and voice — they are all part of our language. And how someone speaks this language shows who they really are. As Oscar Wilde said: “The true mystery is on the surface.” Beauty doesn’t need to be explained. It simply exists. And it’s enough just to love it.

©2025 Professor Victoria.

Epigraph

A name is a bridge. Through it, we return to those we once loved in silence.

Once, there was a forest where every tree knew someone’s name.

These were the names of people who had been forgotten, lost, or never spoken out loud.

The forest didn’t call loudly. It didn’t shout. It simply waited.

Aela was the only one who could feel it. No one taught her — she just knew:

if you plant a tree with a name, it will grow, even if no one remembers that name anymore.

She planted many trees.

Under each tree was a small sign:

“For the one who loved in silence.”

“For her.”

“For him, who was afraid.”

With each new tree, the forest grew quieter — but deeper.

Its breath became like music, the kind you can hear only at night, when the whole world is asleep.

One day, among the new sprouts, Aela saw a woman.

She stood silently, as if she were searching for something lost long ago.

Around her neck was a pendant with a small flower — a forget-me-not. Aela recognized it.

It was the flower of memory.

“Are you looking for a name?” Aela asked.

The woman nodded.

“I remember her voice. Her letters. I lost her because I was afraid.

And now I can’t find the way back.”

The forest answered with a gentle whisper.

The wind led them down a path — a path not shown on any map.

They walked for a long time.

Around them stood trees with names: forgotten friends, lost lovers, childhood dreams.

And then — a tree.

Tall, strong.

On its bark — her name.

And next to it, written in a different hand — another name.

“She’s waiting for you,” the forest whispered.

The woman touched the tree.

Her eyes filled with light — not with tears, but with hope.

She was no longer lost.

Because someone had spoken her name with love.

Aela smiled.

She knew: one day, someone would find her name here too.

And the forest would remember again.

Years passed.

Aela planted hundreds of trees.

Each one was someone’s salvation.

The forest grew.

It became like a map of the world:

Here — a name forgotten by a grandmother.

There — a name whispered by a mother in her sleep.

But one day, the forest called her.

Not with wind.

Not with leaves.

With a voice — familiar, warm…

“Aela…”

She stopped. Her heart trembled.

That name — hers — was rarely spoken out loud.

She turned around — and saw a woman.

Serious, calm, with forest-colored eyes just before the rain.

Around her neck — the same forget-me-not pendant.

But now it was shining.

“Do you remember my name?” Aela asked.

Her voice shook like a leaf in the wind.

“I never forgot it.

I just didn’t dare say it out loud.”

And then the forest fell silent.

Because everything had been said.

They stood side by side.

The trees began to rustle gently.

Now the forest knew what love sounded like when spoken in silence.

And a new tree grew in that clearing.

It had no sign.

Because names spoken from the heart don’t need labels.

After that, Aela stopped planting trees.

She simply came to the forest and listened.

And more often — she was silent.

The woman with rain-colored eyes now walked beside her.

Not every day. Not every evening.

But every time she needed a silence that the city could not give.

One morning, Aela didn’t come.

No path, no wind, no birds knew where she had gone.

But deep in the heart of the forest, a new tree had grown.

It was taller than all the rest.

Thin like a song, strong like the breath of spring.

Its leaves whispered a name. One single name.

And if you walk up to it, and place your hand on the bark —

you will suddenly remember.

Someone you lost.

Or someone you were once afraid to name.

Because the forest that remembers names never loses those who truly loved.

It simply keeps them — until the next meeting.

Afterword

The story “The Forest That Remembered Names” tells us something important:

True love doesn’t need loud words.

It can live in silence,

in memory,

in the soft rustle of leaves,

in a glance, in a gesture.

Every forgotten name in this forest is someone’s story — once interrupted.

But the forest doesn’t forget.

It keeps love, even when people were too afraid to say it.

It waits.

It reminds us that speaking a name brings feelings back to life.

If you ever feel afraid to love — remember the forest.

It’s there.

It breathes.

It waits for you.

Names spoken from the heart live forever.

©2025 Professor Victoria.

Don’t touch her soul if you don’t intend to stay.

Don’t awaken her tenderness if you prefer the cold.

Don’t ignite her fire if you’re not ready to be burned.

A woman is not a game. She is both storm and calm.

Words can awaken a universe of feelings within her,

But only actions can earn her trust.

If you’re not ready to take responsibility for what you stir,

Then don’t touch her.

Because a woman, once awakened,

Becomes a force of nature.

And she can’t be handled

By someone who only loves the surface.

©2025 Professor Victoria.