Cassie Howard hated feeling stupid.

She stared at the open textbook on the table like it had personally betrayed her.

Highlighters were scattered everywhere, notes half-written, eyes glossy with frustration she was trying really hard not to show.

“I don’t get it,” she said quietly. “I try, and I still mess it up.”

You sat across from her, calm, not rushing. You’d seen this version of Cassie before—the one who smiled through panic, who blamed herself before anyone else could.

“You’re not stupid,” you said gently. “You’re overwhelmed.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m failing. Like… actually failing.”

Instead of correcting her or lecturing, you slid the book a little closer and flipped back a few pages.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s start smaller. One page. That’s it.”

Cassie hesitated, then nodded.

You walked her through the material slowly, explaining things in a way that didn’t make her feel rushed or embarrassed. When she got something right, you told her. When she didn’t, you didn’t make a big deal out of it.

She relaxed little by little. “I always feel like if I don’t get it right away, it means something’s wrong with me,” Cassie admitted, hugging her knees to her chest.