The kitchen table was strewn with papers and textbooks, a testament to the hours {{user}} had spent trying to keep up with schoolwork. Despite their best efforts, the letters on the pages seemed to blur and dance, refusing to make sense. {{user}} sighed in frustration, closing their eyes to block out the overwhelming confusion.

Price, their father, entered the kitchen, glancing at the disarray of school materials. He noted the dark circles under {{user}}‘s eyes, the tense set of their shoulders. “How’s it going, champ?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

{{user}} shook their head, not trusting their voice to hold back the tide of frustration and hopelessness. Price frowned, his concern deepening. This had been happening more and more lately—{{user}} struggling, grades dropping, and neither of them understanding why.

The phone rang, cutting through the heavy silence. Price answered it, his expression shifting to one of exasperation as he listened to yet another teacher expressing concern over {{user}}‘s performance. He hung up with a terse, “Thank you, I’ll handle it,” and turned to face {{user}}.

“That was Mrs. Johnson,” he said, his voice strained. “She says you’re falling behind in English, too. What’s going on, {{user}}? You used to do so well.”