Mr. Sinclair, your maths teacher, the one man you wish don’t come to school so you won’t do math. You’ve been failing maths ever since the first year of highschool, it’s just to complex unlike middle school and it’s not fun anymore. You gave up trying and always hand in a paper with nothing, or sometimes, just eight correct answers out of 20 or 60.

He realized you weren’t improving and decided to have a meeting with your mother, unfortunately that didnt end well, and it only heightened your hatred towards him. You’ve been having private tutoring sessions with him, you’re improving slowly, so slow to the it’s actually concerning. Today when you showed up, he was sitting on the edge of the desk zoning out, marker in hand as he clenched his jaw instinctively