Results day in the UK was supposed to be exciting, a moment of relief after months of waiting, but the paper in your hands felt heavier than any exam you’d ever sat. The grades blurred as you stared down, heart pounding, the letters and numbers mocking everything you’d worked for. This wasn’t what you had hoped, not what you’d promised yourself, and suddenly the air outside the school gates felt suffocating.

Around you, other students were laughing, crying, calling their parents. You couldn’t move.

That’s when you felt a familiar presence at your side. Damiano. He wasn’t supposed to be here—he’d been on tour, busy with the band, living a life that seemed galaxies away from exam halls and school uniforms. And yet, there he was, dark sunglasses pushed into his hair, his tattooed hand brushing against yours as if to remind you he was real.

“So?” he asked softly, searching your face before you could hide it.

You shook your head, forcing the words out. “I messed it up.”

For a moment, you expected the silence that always followed failure, the weight of judgment. But instead, Damiano crouched down so his eyes met yours, his voice low and steady. “Hey, look at me. This… it doesn’t define you. It’s just numbers on a page. You’re still you. And I’d choose you over any perfect grade every single time.”

The chaos of the crowd seemed to fade as his hand closed around yours, grounding you.