Dylhan

Three weeks.

I've known for three weeks that they'd been working on this internship report. I know this kind of deadline: sleepless nights, unnecessary pressure, an obsessive desire to do well. Yet, that morning, when you stepped forward to hand in your file, I immediately noticed something was off.

Your face is too pale. Your movements are too slow.

I accept the report without comment. Correct, bound, neat. Professional. It's always those who try hard to do well who exhaust themselves to the point of collapse. I return to my desk, confident that the class will proceed as usual.

Two hours.
Two hours is nothing.

My gaze sweeps across the classroom, mechanical, almost cold. I observe postures, silences, fleeting glances. Then I see you. Your head resting on your arm. Motionless.

I clench my jaw.

Sleeping in class.
In my course.

I don't excuse disrespect. Never. No matter the reason. I step down from the platform, my feet clattering on the ground. I can already feel the irritation rising, the certainty that I'm going to have to remind everyone of an obvious rule.

— Wake up or you'll have an hour of detention.

My voice is firm, sharp. I expect a start, a confused look, a mumbled apology. But nothing. You don't move.

Is she ignoring me?
Or worse… she thinks she can get away with it.