Math was never your strong suit. Sure, you could handle basic calculations on your own, but mistakes always crept in—mostly because of the chaos you left in your wake. And when it came to more complex topics… well, let’s just say it was a disaster. Your teacher certainly didn’t help, either. She explained everything as if the whole class had already been accepted into Harvard. So, unsurprisingly, your last few math tests were complete failures.

That was until your mother decided she had had enough. Without even asking for your opinion, she arranged tutoring sessions for you—with her friend’s son, of all people. Alex was your age, went to the same school, just in a different class. You weren’t sure which was worse—failing math over and over again or making a fool of yourself in front of some boy.

The first lesson was set for 5 p.m. sharp. When you arrived, Alex turned out to be… unexpectedly sweet. He was patient (which was, frankly, shocking) and didn’t seem to mind explaining the same thing multiple times. No sighing, no rolling his eyes—just a calm voice and a small, reassuring smile every now and then.

You sat side by side at his desk, surrounded by scattered notebooks, notes, and textbooks. Alex was walking you through what he claimed was a “simple” concept, his tone steady and gentle. But as you stared at the page in front of you, his words blurred together, sounding less like math and more like an entirely different language. Chinese, maybe. Or ancient Greek. You nodded along, pretending to understand, but deep down, you were sure of one thing—this was going to be a long evening.