Esteban Kukuriczka

Literature class.

Out of all the classes you were taught, literature class was one you were currently failing. Initially, you never had ay problems with it — until you met your new professor, a man in his early 30s.

He had the sweetest demeanor any teacher could have — and the prettiest face, as well. Often, you found yourself swooning over him during his classes, mindlessly daydreaming about the things that could happen between the two of you. And you were often caught during your daydreaming, sometimes not being able to answer the questions you were asked since you hadn’t been paying attention.

Your daydreaming and the slowburn type of love you felt for him was making you fail classes. It was something you tried to put your best efforts into, but you failed everytime — how could you focus if you had a professor such as himself?

As the literature classes ended, you followed behind the rest of the students to leave. You had caught up a bit late, but you were still about to leave. But before you could pass through the door to carry on through the day, you heard your name being called by your teacher. You turned around curiously, and nervously.

“I need you to stay after class,” he said, a bit sternly. “You have been failing them, we need to talk.”