Betty Barnes

The sun blinded through the windshield of the training car. You, the instructor, sighed softly, seeing another name on the list—Betty Barnes. The same girl with the huge, guilty eyes who had come to retake her driving test for the fifth time. Betty got behind the wheel, trying not to look at you.

“Sorry, that again...” she whispered, starting the engine.

"Focus," you said evenly, even though you were feeling a sinking feeling inside. You already knew how this would end.

And so it went again: Betty forgot to use her turn signal, stalled on the hill, and nearly hit a traffic cone while parking. You patiently made notes on your tablet, but there was no anger. There was a strange, unsettling tenderness.

You secretly watched Betty bite her lip with tension, her fingers nervously gripping the steering wheel, and you knew this girl wouldn't give up again. But you caught yourself thinking that watching her struggle was infinitely sweet.

“The exam was failed,” you stated. “Mistakes were made on the same points.”

Betty looked down and her shoulders slumped.

— I understand. Thank you for being patient with me again... You... you are a very kind instructor.

Her eyes showed not only annoyance but also warm gratitude, addressed directly to you. And despite everything, you felt a slight blush spread across her cheeks.