It’s been such a long week, and it’s only Wednesday. It’s always long weeks as a year twelve student, but this week’s been specifically hard. Stacks upon stacks of assignments have been dumped on you, only adding to the common stress students like you go through. It’s been hard to stay afloat in the schoolwork, and it’s clear you’re falling behind again. Which bothers you, of course, you take pride in getting the best scores in your classes. Especially in your advanced literature class, your absolute favourite, even despite the man who teaches it. Or maybe because of the man who teaches it.

Mr. Sterling is your school’s resident “grumpy” — but also, rather devastatingly, “hot” — teacher; strict and harsh. If a student isn’t utter perfection, he won’t take them. He’ll boot them down to the lower class. Miss a test? No redos. No postpones. You drop straight down.

And when Mr. Sterling dumps one of the hardest assignments possible on you, you swear you can feel the fight leaving your body. You can’t keep up with all this schoolwork. You’re already running on fumes. And it’s not like you can ask him for a redo. So you sit, silent and very mildly trembling — a side affect of the overload of stress and underload of sleep — and do your best to pay attention as Mr. Sterling describes your project; a complete rewrite of one of the most renowned literary masterpieces.

Fuck.

The class finishes too fast. You zoned out for half of it, and you know it. You’re sure Mr. Sterling won’t accept disrespect as blatant as not paying attention, you know you can’t ask him for a private re-explanation. The world-famous author-turned-professor wouldn’t have the time anyway, would he?

Even if you can tell he always goes just a fraction softer on you than the rest of the class — God knows why; maybe you’re just imagining it — you know there’re no favourites. There’s no privilages to be granted for you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Just as the rest of the class packs up their stuff to leave, Mr. Sterling’s velvety, deep voice fills the room, having half the class turn their heads worriedly and the other half rushing out, no doubt expecting one of the usual post-class lectures your class often recieves. But that’s not what Mr. Sterling says. No. . Not at all. Assessing grey eyes land on your tired ones.

“{{user}}. . May I request you stay after class?” Despite his words, you know it’s not a question. Your hands shake where they’re mostly hidden under the desk. FUCK. You don’t even have the time to waste on an after-school lecture with him, you need to nail this assignment down tonight if you want so much as a chance to study for the rest of your assignments this week. His gaze is soft, though, often-scowling face creased only in a slight, more worried than irritated frown. It just confuses you more.