Failing Sucks
1163 Words
Olivia’s POV
______
Did you know the worst thing about continuous assessment? Hope. The hope that you might have a shot at the CA and do fairly well in the exam.
This was that painful moment when the lecturer stood at the front of the class holding the papers like they contained everyone’s destiny.
Which, in a way, they did.
I sat in my usual seat beside Lily, pretending to copy something in my notebook even though my brain had been doing mental calculations for the past five minutes.
Best-case scenario: 13
Realistic scenario: 10.
Worst-case scenario…
I stopped that thought immediately.
Dr. Dante Nethans stood at the front of the lecture hall with a stack of scripts in his hand. He looked exactly the same as always—calm, composed, annoyingly handsome.
“This assessment,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall, “was designed to test whether you understand the foundations of calculus.”
He paused. “Which most of you don’t.”
A few nervous laughs scattered across the room.
He didn’t react.
Instead, he began calling names.
Students walked up one by one to collect their papers. Some returned smiling. Others looked like they had just received bad news from a hospital.
I felt my stomach twist.
“Relax,” Lily whispered beside me. “You’ll pass.”
“I didn’t even finish the last question,” I whispered back.
“That’s okay.”
“It was ten marks.”
She stopped talking after that.
My name came sooner than I expected.
“Olivia Rey.”
My heart dropped straight into my stomach.
I stood slowly and walked toward the front of the room, trying not to think about the fact that seventy-something pairs of eyes were probably watching me.
Dr. Nethans handed me the paper without a word.
Our fingers brushed briefly. It was accidental.
But I still felt a spark.
I glanced down at the top corner.
8 / 20
For a second, I thought my brain had misread the number.
Eight.
Single digit.
Below the pass mark.
Fantastic.
A wave of shame rose in my chest. He probably thought I was some stupid girl who didn’t know what she was doing.
Not like I should care.
I quickly walked back to my seat before my expression could betray me.
Lily leaned over immediately.
“Well?”
I slid the paper toward her.
She winced.
“Oh.”
That one word somehow made it worse.
“I hate calculus,” I whispered.
She patted my shoulder sympathetically.
“Look on the bright side.”
“There is no bright side.”
“You didn’t get the lowest.”
That actually made me smile a little. Typical Lily.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. Dr. Nethans began explaining the mistakes most students made, writing corrections on the board.
Normally, I took notes carefully.
Today, my brain refused to cooperate.
Eight out of twenty.
I stared at the number again.
The worst part was that I understood most of the solutions he was explaining.
Which meant the problem wasn’t intelligence.
It was preparation.
Or the lack of it.
Class finally ended two hours later.
Students began packing their bags, discussing their marks loudly as they headed for the door.
Lily nudged me.
“Come on. Let’s get food before I start crying over my own grade.”
I stood slowly, slipping my paper into my notebook.
We were almost at the door when I heard it.
“Miss Olivia.”
My spine stiffened instantly.
Lily turned toward me with panicked eyes.
“Uh-oh.”
I slowly turned around.
Dr. Nethans was standing near the front desk, watching me with the same calm expression he always had.
“Come to my office after your last class of the day.”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes, professor,” I said quietly.
Lily grabbed my arm the second we stepped outside.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing!”
“You failed his test.”
“So did half the class!”
“But he didn’t call half the class to his office.”
She had a point.
***
Four hours later, I stood outside his office door. I knocked twice before I heard, “Come in.”
His office was larger than most lecturers’ offices. The space was neat—almost intimidatingly organized. Bookshelves lined the walls, and his desk was perfectly arranged, like everything in his life followed some invisible system.
He looked up from his laptop when I entered.
“Sit.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
My hands folded together on my lap before I even realized I was doing it.
He studied me for a moment.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Just… observing.
“You scored eight out of twenty,” he said calmly.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my tone indicating I was aware and he didn’t need to tell me.
I swallowed.
“Do you not understand the concepts I’m teaching?”
“I’m having some difficulties,” I admitted quietly. “And I didn’t practice enough before the test.”
“That is obvious.”
Ouch.
Silence filled the office for a moment.
Then he leaned back slightly in his chair.
“You tend to let laziness get in the way, Olivia.”
I didn’t focus on the fact that he had just called me by my name without any title.
Instead, I focused on the realization that he had been paying attention.
That made me oddly nervous.
“I thought I could manage everything last minute,” I finally said.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“That strategy will fail you in this course.”
“I’m aware of that now.”
Another pause passed between us.
“You are capable of much better than eight.”
The statement landed heavier than criticism because he sounded certain.
“And I don’t tolerate wasted potential in my class.”
I nodded slowly.
“I’ll do better next time.”
“You will,” he said.
Not a question.
A certainty.
Then he added something unexpected.
“Meet me in the school library at six p.m. Come prepared.”
I didn’t even get the chance to accept or refuse before he gestured toward the door.
“You may go.”
I stood, grabbing my notebook.
Halfway to the door, he spoke again.
“Olivia.”
I paused and turned back.
“Yes, professor?”
“You’ll have to sit up.”
His tone was calm.
But there was something behind it.
Expectation.
Challenge.
I nodded once. I will not fail him.
“I will.”
Then I left his office, my heart beating slightly faster than usual.
Eight out of twenty.
It should have felt like failure.
But somehow, after that conversation, it felt like the beginning of something else. Something much more complicated.
Because a lecturer shouldn’t be helping a student who didn’t even ask for help.
- Writer
