I'm his assistant. The fact that he couldn't handle all this himself should tell him that I can't do it either.
I go through the motions, all the chores and tests that have to be done, but as I log the numbers, they all kind of run together.
I can't do this. Professor, you know that you mean more to me than anyone, but I just can't take this work you dump on me. You wonder why I'm worn out all the time, why I can't seem to draw anything anymore, why more often than not I have to run things twice because I did something wrong the first time. Professor, I just can't take this.
I see that picture you keep by the phone, the one of all three of us. I know I can't compete with her, and I don't blame her for all this. I don't think she notices either.
There's a sick feeling in my stomach, and I grab the picture from off the wall and plant it face-down on the couch. The frame cracks under my hands and I freeze.
Right then I know I'm stuck, because the only thought in my mind is 'Oh god, I need to fix this before the Professor gets home'.
Even when I'm angry at you, you're still the only thing I can think of.