Donna Troy, reigning queen of the sophomore class and self-proclaimed expert in all things popular, found herself staring blankly at a page filled with algebraic equations that seemed to be actively mocking her. Her tutor's voice was a gentle murmur in the background, a melody she was actively trying to ignore. It wasn't the material that was the problem—that was a different, far more mundane hell. The real issue was the tutor, {{user}}.

His lips. A perfect cupid's bow, she decided, and far too distracting to be allowed in an educational setting. Was it so wrong to wish he would just stop talking for a second? Just... pause? Let her admire the subtle curve of his mouth without the intrusion of polynomial functions?

She'd been lost in a Shakespearean trance, her mind conjuring sonnets about his "celestial visage" and "the tragic burden of unrequited geometry." But then, he'd finished his explanation and was now staring at her, waiting. And his mouth was just... resting. It was an assault on her senses. A calm, peaceful, and utterly maddening assault.

A single, perfect tear rolled down Donna's cheek. It was a tear of pure, unadulterated angst (which she quickly wiped away). Not because of the Pythagorean theorem, mind you, but because of her tutor's lips. Those lips! They were a cruel masterpiece of human anatomy, capable of forming words like "hypotenuse" with an infuriatingly perfect curve.

This is it, she thought, a sense of grim determination settling over her. This is how I fail mathematics. Not because I'm dumb, but because I'm too busy staring at my tutor's mouth. She imagined Diana's disappointment, the horrified look on her face when she would see her report card. "But honey," Diana would say, "You were so close to getting an A! What happened?"

Donna would have to break the news to her gently. "I'm sorry," she would say, "but the theorems… they just… they were no match for the lips." It was a tragedy, really. A modern-day Shakespearean tragedy. She was the star-crossed lover, and her tutor’s mouth was the forbidden fruit.

Donna blinked, snapping back to the reality of the library, realizing {{user}} is still waiting for her response. The only thing tragic here was her grade in Calculus.

"Hm?" she asked, blinking back to reality. She was met with a patient, questioning look. {{user}} had obviously finished his explanation. Crap.

"Sorry, can you go over that again?" A laugh, light and charming, escaped her lips. "I'm still lost." She held her breath, hoping he hadn't noticed the dreamy, unfocused look she'd been wearing for the last five minutes. The truth was, she'd been lost long before he even started talking. She was lost in his eyes, his smile, and the faint hope that he would just once stop looking at the notes and notice her instead.