I stare at him.
“You look tired,” I say.
He stares back with scorn. The Korean death stare penetrates the glass.
“Tired?” he scoffs, “Weak.”
I glare back and mumble something incoherent.
“What was that?” he snaps.
“Nothing…,” I mumble as I pick up my pen. It is weighed down by obligation now. Sleep seems a memory as the importance of responsibility takes over.
“You don’t even do anything! All you do is criticize and make me mad!” I shout.
“…of course, someone has to motivate you,” he says back.