Lessons Learned, Healing Hearts

Pity Party, Table for One (Chapter 15)

As Piero settled back into the car after a full day at the Blue Light studio, he was surprised by the absence of Marlow's usual cheerful greeting. Instead, he found her sitting rigidly in the driver's seat, her hands strangling the steering wheel, her gaze fixed ahead.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his tone filled with concern and a desire to help.

"It's nothing," Marlow muttered, her eyes avoiding the probing looks from the others in the car.

"Marlow... tell us. What's wrong? Did something happen at school?" Ignazio inquired, sitting forward in his seat.

Shaking her head, she refused to answer. Stopped from putting the key in the ignition, by Piero holding her hand in both of his, he asked her to look at him. Marlow's jaw twitched as she slowly turned. Out of habit, her eyes dropped.

"Don't tell me it is nothing because I can see you've been crying," Piero insisted, "and I want to know why."

Attempting to deflect his probing, exhaling hard, Marlow looked past Piero and offered a feeble excuse.

"I'm just tired. Yesterday was a really long day."

"I don't believe you," he flat out said, his expression echoing his disappointment that she hadn't told him the truth. Pulling her hand away from him, the image of her reacting to Jinn flashed across Piero's mind. Receiving that same forced smile as he had back then, he softened his tone.

"I get that you are tired, but this goes beyond just needing some sleep."

"I'm sorry," Marlow said, her voice strained as she swallowed hard. "I'm just beating myself up over a course I am taking."

"What course?" Gianluca asked.

"It's nothing. This isn't anything you can fix, so don't worry about it."

As her gaze dropped, a single tear slipped onto her cheek, and all three boys called out her name at the same time.

"If you don't want to talk about it, then we understand," Ignazio said. "We just want you to know we're here for you."

Feeling a second teardrop, Marlow quickly brushed it away. After spending the past week together, she had come to value their warm acceptance of her into their circle. Knowing their concern stemmed from genuine care rather than judgment, she leaned back against the driver's door and faced them.

"It's just a stupid math course," she muttered. "I have a disability called dyscalculia, which makes processing mathematical equations a real challenge. Despite the support from a few caring teachers, passing any math class has always felt like an uphill battle." As Marlow continued to speak, her voice wavered, and tears welled in her eyes. With a deep, shuddering breath, the weight of her struggle poured out in a rush of pent-up emotion.

"I get that our education needs to be well rounded, but understanding math has nothing to do with what I want to be, so I delayed taking any math course for three and a half years. This semester, I had no choice but to enroll in a math class. Following my counsellor's advice, I opted for the lowest level math class available. However, what the math department deemed easy was three months of absolute hell for me.

Today, we did a practice final exam. I barely made it through half of the questions, and Monday's final exam is a timed test worth 45% of my final mark. I have excellent grades in everything else. It's—" her constricting throat choked her words. "If I don't pass, I don't graduate. If I don't graduate, I can't apply for my Masters."

Marlow turned back around to face the steering wheel. Resting her head on the headrest and closing her eyes, unrestrained tears streamed down her face, and it took both hands to wipe them away.