What Love Feels Like

Eighteen | Grades

I fidget with my sleeve as my knees bounce restlessly up and down from my seat as I see the results on my Math paper once again.

B+

There is a ringing to my ears that I can't seem to ignore. I look around my surroundings to find other classmates still standing to get their papers back. Some got theirs already and are laughing about their bad grade and I can't help feeling envious of them.

It would be nice not to care.

I was supposed to be good at this subject. It is - was one of my strongest subjects.

I should've studied harder like Audrey told me to.

This is not what I usually get. I do better. I should've done better.

I was lazy, confident that It'd be okay after practicing for a while that wasn't clearly enough.

I never bring these results. Academics weren't a problem in my life. Ever. Nothing my parents ever had to worry about because they knew I didn't need any help.

Until this year.

They've already been disappointed every time I've brought home my report card this year and I can't even blame them.

They're worried about me, thinking I can't seem to adjust in this school and even though they try not to show I see the disappointment flashing in their eyes.

I scan my paper, counting all the ticks over and over again, checking to see if the teacher might've made a mistake even though I already went to my teacher to check it.

"What is going on with your grades, Ariella? You're usually a bright student and I've never expected to see a grade like this under your name." My teacher told me after handing out my paper. I was going to burst out crying on the spot.

Grades don't define your worth.

Then why am I feeling like such a failure right now?

Noah slumps down in the seat next to mine, laughing with a guy who's still standing. His paper is in his hand and he looks like he couldn't care less about it.

He sees me and his eyes soften.
His mouth slides up in a half smile when he sees me beside him, "Lala," He greets with a teasing glint in his eyes.

I can't even bring myself to cringe at the nickname like how I usually do. He notices and his mouth tilts down. "What's wrong?"

Is it that obvious that there's something wrong?

You've always been the one to drag others in your own problems, so yes.

"Nothing's wrong," I don't meet his eyes while I fidget with my pens, organizing them by colour.

He tilts his head while scanning my face with those dark eyes of his. "Liar."

"How much did you get?" I ask suddenly.