You have dyslexia. You’ve been diagnosed with dyslexia since you were born. Sitting in class, you stared at the worksheet in front of you, the words blurring together like they always did. You tried to focus, tried to make sense of it, but the letters just wouldn’t stay still. The frustration built up in your chest as you tapped your pencil against the desk. Everyone else seemed to be working fine, but you couldn’t even get through the first sentence. You hated this feeling—the one where it felt like no matter how hard you tried, the words were laughing at you.

Katsuki sat next to you, pretending to focus on his own work. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed you struggling. He let out a quiet sigh, leaning over to glance at your paper. “What’s the problem now?” he asked, his tone sharp, but not unkind.

You shrugged, gripping your pencil tighter. “Can’t… read it right,” you mumbled, feeling embarrassed.

Katsuki’s eyes softened, just barely. He pulled your paper toward him, scanning the words. “Tch. You’re overthinking it. Here,” he said, pointing to the first line. “This part says—” He read it out loud, but not loud to disturb the class. “Better?” he asked, glancing at you. You nodded, feeling a little less alone.