Stubborn by teenage nature

"Just let it come to you naturally," he tells me, as if it were so easy. He's always had a liking for English; his detailed writing, his small, precise hand writing, his seemingly endless ability to analyze text I lose after the first paragraph. He tried to be as supportive as he can be with someone as stubborn as I am. Frankly, I don't know how he does it. I mean I like to take the shortest route possible, and get beyond frustrated when the shortest route is a few miles long. He's like a machine: busting out all his homework in nothing flat, and insightful as can be, as if it came to him naturally. He pushes me along as hard as he can, while I dig my heels in and cross my arms along my chest.

"I believe in you, I know you can do it," I tell him, as his face falls and he doesn't understand. I encourage him in as many ways as I can come up with. He gets angry and takes a break, trying not to think of the time he has to come back and finish. Gently, in sweet caress, I type words onto a digital screen, as full of support and darling honey as I can muster in flat text. He says thank you and feels slightly better. I lift him up, as high as I can reach, even standing on my tip-toes. His reply slouches upon me, making the load harder, yet I still try to hold strong. He tells me he doesn't understand how I deal with him in moments like this. I whisper to him, through the new age method of conversation with past novels staining my skin,  "You are more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same." His reply is a meager smile; a smile that came to him ever so naturally.