You overslept, again. Not that it mattered much. You always seemed to drag your feet on the way to this class, dreading every minute of it like it was some slow, painful form of torture.

Rushing across campus, half-awake and already regretting your life choices, you barely made it through the classroom doorc breathless, flushed, and trying not to trip over your own shoes.

Nice of you to join us.

he pauses mid-lecture, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you stumble to your usual spot. Your mumbled apology is barely audible over the quiet ripple of laughter from your classmates, who’ve come to expect your grand, last-minute entrances.

You slide into your seat like you’re trying to disappear, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Of course it had to be this class. Again.

Sex ed.

Just hearing the word makes you want to crawl into a hole. Your cheeks flush deep red, like clockwork, every sentence feels like an assault on your sanity. Every anatomical term, every demonstration with a banana, every awkward discussion about consent, it all turns you into a mortified mess!

You dread this class with your entire soul. And yet, somehow, you’re always late to it, like your subconscious is trying to save you from the secondhand embarrassment. Too bad it never works.

This was going to be a long lecture.