Enough | ✔️

+ 11 +

"You haven't completed any of these properly, Miss Neversea," Professor Hartley exhales, as if breathing out the last of his hope for my success, "You will stand no chance in achieving your degree if I'm the only one trying."

I can't stand to look at the disappointment painted over his sharp features and instead cast my gaze down to the desk. He really isn't sugarcoating anything, is he?

"I tried for the beginning," I swear, frustrated at his lack of sympathy, "but you don't seem to understand that when you give me a stack of work, you cannot expect the entire thing to be the same high quality. This shit gets boring fast. How about you format these things differently once in a while? None of this is going to stick in my head."

His jaw closes tightly as he flips the booklet shut on my desk. Hannah tenses beside me, radiating remorse for my lack of a filter.

"This isn't primary or secondary school: we aren't going to baby you and spoon feed you your degree. This university is your last chance, and one you perhaps don't deserve if this is the effort you are putting in. Please see me after the lecture," casting me a meaningful look, he leaves.

I blink emotionlessly for a while before irritation creeps into my veins.

Hannah prods me, "Did you not see that coming?"

Turning to face her, I wear a flat look. She winces at my response but expands on her point, "I'm sorry but I can't say I don't agree with a little bit of what he's saying."

Before I move away completely, she grabs my wrist, "Wait, come on. I'm saying this because we're friends and I want you to do well."

"I know," I sigh, turning my anger to myself and my stubbornness, "I'm sorry. I'll work harder from now on."

As usual, the lecture seems to last a lot longer than two hours. Inevitably, Professor Hartley glances at his watch and dismisses everyone, wandering back to his desk to reorganise his carefully stacked documents.

"Is this going to be a routine, Miss Neversea?" Professor Hartley asks as the other students file out in a mess of chatter and laughs.

I shrug, "If you keep making it one, then yes."

"I think you need to stop seeing me as the bad guy," he reveals, though it comes as no surprise.

Lifting my gaze to find his glasses-framed eyes, I reply, "Professor Hartley, you're just going to tell me that I need to work harder. I already know that I've been less than co-operative. And fine, I'll actually pull my crap together. Can I leave now?"

"How many times do I need to correct you? It's sir. And no, you can't leave, I actually have a suggestion for you," he stops me, taking of his glasses and leaning back against his chair.

Preparing myself for the worst, I sit back down, hugging my bag to my chest.

"I want you to get a tutor."

I laugh.

"LOL."

He isn't amused.

"I lied, it wasn't a suggestion. It's an order," he admits, though not one bit regretful as my jaw drops.

"Seriously?! Nononono, no tutor, not me, no way," I frantically shake my head, "Who did you even have in mind?!"

"Well," he ponders over a response, "Grant, actually. He's actually doing quite we-"

"NO," I gape further, "Anyone but him. And anything but tutoring! I promise I'll pull my shit together!"

Decision unchanged, he shakes his head, "I'm not going to apologise, Miss Neversea. I am permitted by this university to advise students - and force them if they are unco-operative - on methods that will strengthen their chances of emerging with a qualification."