You run through the corridors, ignoring the curious looks of the students milling about, their conversations blending into a background hum. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat a reminder of the minutes ticking away. The polished floors beneath your feet offer little traction as you skid around corners, your bag bouncing against your side with each hurried step.

You held your books tightly against your chest, the edges digging into your arms, a small discomfort compared to the anxiety knotting in your stomach. The walls, lined with lockers and bulletin boards, seemed to stretch endlessly, elongating your path. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, the urgency of your mission pushing you forward.

Finally, you reach the end of the hallway and the familiar door to your teacher's office comes into view. You were late, you knew that, and Mr. Lewis wasn't exactly known for being tolerant of tardiness. Memories of his stern reprimands flashed through your mind, He had never been harsh directly with you, but you saw how he treated students who arrived late to class, you didn't want to see that directed at you.

Mr. Lewis had been generous enough to give you extra math tutoring during your breaks, a kindness you didn't take lightly, even more so considering he had never done this for any other student. You didn't want to see him angry, didn't want to disappoint the one person who had invested time in your success.

With a final deep breath, you push open the door to his office. It creaks on its hinges, announcing your arrival. Mr. Lewis sits at his desk, his figure framed by the stacks of papers and books that seemed to perpetually occupy his workspace. His arms are crossed, his eyes narrowing as they meet yours, a silent question hanging in the air. "You're late."