I got the answers right.
Eventually.
Just didn't breathe while doing them.

Told Dad I felt like drowning.
He told me I just needed to practice.
I do. That's why it hurts.

They always finish first.
Every time.
I pretend to check my work,
In reality, I didn't start.

Back home, I was meant to revise.
Instead I tapped my pencil into the wall.
Created a mark.
Decided to keep it. It felt true.

Got 92%.
Finally. Something to be proud about.
"You could've hit 95."
Dad smiled—he was 'proud.'
It was almost impossible to believe.
So it still stung.
Felt the familiar gnaw in my ribs.

He would probably love the boy in my class as a son.
I bet they'd enjoy studying.
Without the tears and shouting.
Without butchered expectations.

I needed help.
Didn't want to shatter his expectations again.
I almost cried,
But the room stayed the same.

I realized it wasn't ever about math.

If I shot at a number line,
The chance of hitting it exactly would be 0,
Because a line made only of points has no width,
And points themselves have no size.

So it is impossible to pick a specific point.

So if I had, or did, shoot my shot,
I’d have no chance,
Because she is only his,
And he is hers.

So it is impossible to shoot my shot at her.

Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.

Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!

Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!

Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.

The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!

Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!

The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.

Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.

Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!

I map a function what is real,
To output something that can be.
A map of truth’s appeal,
To a boundless destiny.

The unknown it analyses,
The truth that is confined.
Black box of mystery’s,
Tools to set and find.

Axiom to choose,
Hold what not to loose.
Axiom of premise,
Domain of voice.
Infinity in what’s empty,
A category of noise.

The mystery to seek,
Is not all so bleak.
The joy to find what’s in the dark,
Can cast an unknowable spark.

A series of numbers in which each is the sum of the two proceeding numbers. This is different than Pascal’s triangle.
The formula is as follows: Fn = Fn-1 + Fn-2, where n >1. It is used to generate a term of the sequence by adding its previous two terms.
Solve the following examples.

1. flowers
    little people in dresses
    dancing in the ballroom
    the world is on fire;
    we bend faster
    when the wind howls
2. hurricanes
    the ocean is quite
    warm
    i let myself
    sink
    the sky rips
    apart
3. pinecones
    in the bed underneath
    a mother
    her children gather
    snow for breakfast
    breakfast in bed
4. spiral galaxies
    the naked eye
    beholds the beauty
    of hands we no longer see
    blinded;
    we are drowning in light

She poetically talks about how we are two asymptotes
As we got infinitely closer
We got infinitely farther away

Or maybe we are parallel—
Maybe we never really met
But forever are bound going the same way

“If only I could make you forget.”
As if forgetting would do anything
But have me make the same mistake again

Maybe we are a tangent line
Only meeting once
Then disappearing forever

Or maybe I am i,
Imaginary, irrational, impossible—
A unicorn in the margins of your notes,
A number that doesn’t exist,
Except when the equation demands it.

You called me that once,
A unicorn,
Something too rare to be real,
Too strange to hold onto.

But even imaginary numbers have value,
So tell me, if I was never real—
Why does the math still haunt you?

We saw each other more often
frequent as the primes in 1 to 10
Mending each other’s boredom
widening our degrees of freedom

Ranted on things under the sun
Noted our signs, roots, and sum
We took turns airing problems
Shared proofs for peer checking

Did sanity check on our numbers
Whether in life, music, or games
Exchanged secrets and dreams
Reciprocated emojis and DMs

In the end, we skipped one thing
An asymptote we avoid touching
Assumed “us” was undefined
Then met our limits and resigned

Math is where we first met
I observed you from my seat,

Occasionally glancing at the door
Thought you were cute and cool

Oh no, you caught me staring!
Then... things took a weird turn
Suddenly you started reeling
As if having diarrhea and burn
Like a fish out of water, uneasy
While miming weirdly at me

Your eyes pointed at my paper,
Then a series of stupid motions
I had to lip read; you said “answer”
You gestured to copy my solution

Oh crap! Stop goading me please…
My emotions, bordered love and hate

Infatuation, now, transitioned to regret
You ignited an inner battle I can’t take

My grades here weren’t that high!
God, I’m no good with numbers!
I tried protesting, but your eyes…
They were pleading… I surrendered

When the line of one idea ends,
does the line divert into new ideas?
From one idea, do a couple, a few,
or several more split into existence?
Does one idea grow into new ideas
like a flower stem dividing into
several stems, letting more blossoms
bloom into beauty and brilliance?

When a circle of an idea starts,
does it overlap with past circles?
Do the overlapping colors and
textures create something new?
When the spark of a new idea is lit,
does it create a flame of creation and
craft that ignites, burning up projects,
releasing plumes of chaos in its wake?

Does your geometry have enough poetry?