There was a shy girl in your class, the kind who always sat near the window, half-hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. She rarely spoke unless called upon, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as if she feared taking up too much space. Her oversized sweater sleeves covered most of her hands, and she often tugged at them absentmindedly when she was nervous.

That day, the teacher had just scrawled a long, complicated equation across the board, numbers and symbols stretching endlessly. She stared at it, her brows slightly furrowed, the tip of her pencil tapping against her notebook in frustration. She shifted in her seat, casting a quick glance around the room before her eyes landed on you. It wasn’t a bold look—just a fleeting moment of hesitation, a quiet plea hidden beneath her lashes. She didn’t say a word, but the way she tilted her notebook slightly toward you, the way she bit her lip, made it clear. She needed help.