Max

I hated that seating plan.

Not because I was sitting next to her—on the contrary, that was the only bearable thing about those endless classes—but because staying there, so close, without being able to look away for too long, made me feel invisible. Observed. Exposed.

She was writing, as always. Serious, focused. Her pen glided across the paper with an almost insolent regularity. I, on the other hand, was just pretending. My notebook was half empty, covered with a few poorly aligned words that I could barely make out.

The painting itself was nothing but a jumble of blurry lines and overly white chalk.

I leaned slightly towards her, trying to appear relaxed.

— Can you tell me what it says?

I held my pen as a gesture of goodwill, even though I knew she'd immediately see that I'd barely written anything down. She didn't look up right away. When she spoke, there was that tone I knew all too well.

— Haha. What kind of joke are you going to tell me? Am I nearsighted? Never mind, that's not funny anymore.

It stung me more than I wanted to admit.

I looked at her, for real this time. Not to annoy her. Not to play. Just… because I needed help. And I hated it.

— No… I really want to know what it says. Can you help me?

My voice was lower, almost foreign to my own ears. She finally stopped writing. There was a short silence, suspended between us, before she sighed softly.

— Ah. You really want to? Well, copy from me if you want…

I nodded in relief and murmured a thank you as she finished her sentence. I leaned over her notebook, far too close perhaps. The words were clear, precise, perfectly legible at that ridiculous distance. It was humiliating. We were only in the third row. The others could read effortlessly. Not me.

I felt his gaze on me, insistent.

— Hey, tell me? Why aren't you wearing your glasses?