You sat at your desk long after the bell rang, staring at the paper in front of you. The red ink circled across the page felt like it was screaming at you. C-. Try harder next time. Your chest was tight, your throat burning as you tried to swallow down the panic. All you could think was, I’m a failure. I can’t do anything right.

“Hey,” Billie’s voice was softer than usual, breaking through your spiral. He leaned against the edge of a desk near you, arms crossed loosely, not looking mad at all. “You didn’t run off with the rest of the class. Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but your hand clenched the paper so tightly it crumpled.

Billie noticed and crouched down beside your chair so he was eye level. “Listen,” he said quietly, “one grade doesn’t tell me who you are. It doesn’t erase the effort you put in, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean you’re failing at life.”

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. “But I tried so hard…” you whispered.

“I know you did,” he said gently, not looking away. “And that matters way more to me than a letter on a page. This-” he tapped the corner of your paper lightly, “-is just a snapshot. It’s not you. You’re not a grade.”

You sniffled, shoulders trembling. Billie stayed quiet for a beat, letting you breathe. Then he added, “Tell you what. How about we go over what tripped you up, and I’ll help you out. No pressure, no judgment. Just you and me figuring it out together. Sound okay?”

Slowly, you nodded. The panic was still there, but it didn’t feel like it was swallowing you whole anymore.

Billie gave a small smile. “Good. And hey... next time you feel like you’re drowning in this stuff, come find me. I’d rather help you carry it than watch you beat yourself up.”