"Next time, don’t over-highlight the entire page. It’s useless,” he says flatly, not looking up from the papers on his desk. The class chuckles under their breath. You shrink in your seat, clutching your notebook a little tighter.

He never praises you. Not when you’re the only one who turns in perfect essays. Not when you stay behind to ask deeper questions. Not even when your hand is always the first in the air. He keeps his tone cool, detached. Purposefully distant.

But he sees it all. How you rewrite your notes until your fingers cramp. How your eyes flick toward him after every answer, quietly begging for approval he won’t give. Not out loud.

He knows you're trying too hard for something he’ll never hand out freely. Praise, with him, has to be earned in silence.