She was really there. Sitting in front of me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Expression calm, pen moving across the page without pause.
"Sit. We have a tight schedule."
The way she said it made it sound like she owned the whole damn room. And, for some reason, it was easier to obey than to argue.
I dropped into the chair across from her.
"So, math. From what I've seen, that's where you've been failing the hardest."
Straight to the point.
"You actually read my file before coming here?"
"Of course. If I'm teaching you, I need to know who I'm dealing with."
"And who exactly am I, then?"
"Someone with plenty of gaps. For reasons I still don't know."
She paused, looked me in the eye, then added:
"But not someone without potential."
I frowned. Couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or not. Either way, it bothered me.
"Ever think that the reason might just be stubbornness?"
"I did. And it's a terrible excuse."
She said it like correcting a typo. Calm, precise. Infuriating.
Then she slid the paper toward me. Basic stuff: fractions, percentages, first-degree equations. Things I should know.
Seriously? She thinks I'm that dumb?
Still, I picked up the pencil. Blew through the first two, then froze on the third. A fraction over a fraction. Damn it. How did that go again?
A minute passed. I was still stuck, gripping the pencil hard enough to snap it.
"Problem?"
Her eyes were sharp, like she was waiting for me to break.
"This number's… weird."
She leaned closer, took the sheet.
"Division of fractions. Flip the second and multiply. Like this."
"Yeah, yeah. I knew that."
I snatched it back too fast. Truth was, I didn't.
She didn't argue. Just scribbled something in her notebook, like a doctor writing symptoms.
"You always act like you know everything, don't you?"
"No. I just study enough to know."
Sharp comeback. But it worked.
"And you always act like you're above everything, even when you don't know a thing."
That one hit harder. No answer from me this time. Just silence as I kept writing.
I finished the rest. Some right, some pure guesses.
She scanned it quickly.
"If you want to insult me, just say it. No need to dress it up."
"Insult you? Why would I?"
"Because that's what teachers usually do when a student underperforms. I've seen it."
Her eyes locked on mine.
"Miura, if you don't want to be here, say it. But if you do, we'll work together. I only agreed to this because I don't believe you're the idiot rebel everyone paints you as. If staying here matters to you, then trust me. No excuses."
Her tone was steady, but there was something behind it. Something almost… sincere.
I exhaled slowly.
"Fine. Go ahead, teacher."
She handed me another sheet, this one with algebra.
"Solve these."
I tried for real this time. Struggled, remembered bits, pieced things together. Handed it back after a few minutes.
She studied it without a word. That silence alone was enough to make me tense.
And I caught myself watching her too closely. Not the paper. Her. The way her hair slipped loose near her face. The rhythm of her pen. Those sharp eyes that never wavered. She was the kind of trap you didn't see coming until it was too late. Perfume bottle hiding poison.
Ridiculous. I forced my eyes back down.
She finally spoke.
"There's logic here. A structure. You're not dumb. You're just rusty."
"Thanks for the compliment?"
"Observation."
"I'll take it as one. Always thought I was hopeless at this."
She paused.
"Did someone tell you that, or did you just decide to believe it?"
The question landed heavier than expected. I had no answer.
We kept going. Problem after problem. I messed up a few badly, hit some by luck. She corrected each one with the same tone — calm, firm, not mocking.
That's what got me. She wasn't there to humiliate me. She was actually teaching.
When I failed twice in a row, I braced for sarcasm. Nothing came. Just correction. Just patience.
I couldn't help it.
"You could at least call me stupid once in a while."
"Stupid is someone who refuses to learn. You're here."
I looked away. Every time I tried to hide behind a joke, she had a counter.
When the session ended, she closed her notebook carefully.
"That's enough for today. Same time tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am." I saluted half-joking.
I packed up, stood, and added:
"Not as bad as I thought. Except for your GPS voice."
Her eyebrow twitched.
"You relearned things in minutes that you hadn't touched in years. That's promising."
I slipped out before she noticed the small smile I couldn't hold back.
For the first time, maybe I had a shot.
Two thoughts followed me down the stairs:
First: she wasn't going to make this easy.
Second: I was actually going to try.
And the strange part? That didn't sound so bad.