The classroom was a mess.
Papers fluttered like fallen leaves. Voices clashed and overlapped. The scent of panic lingered in the air like stale perfume.
Mike stood at the front of the room.
Silent.
Unmoving.
His arms crossed, glasses catching the glare of the overhead lights. Even without saying a word, his presence swallowed the chaos whole.
He didn’t have to shout. He never did.
Everyone already knew—the moment Mike started talking, it wasn’t going to end well for them.
“W-We didn’t know the teacher changed the format!” one of the classmates blurted. “No one told us it had to be a live demo!”
Someone tried to laugh. “I mean, seriously, who actually reads the assignment sheet word for word?”
The room froze when Mike moved.
He stepped forward, picked up the crumpled assignment sheet from the desk, and held it up like evidence in a trial.
“Page two. Line six,” he said quietly. “‘Prepare a live demonstration for your solution.’ It's been there since day one.”
His tone was cold, not loud. Controlled, not angry. But every syllable cut with surgical precision.
I watched from my seat, holding my notebook close to my chest.
He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to.
And somehow, that made it worse.
“L-Look,” another classmate stammered, “we’ve all been busy with other assignments. We thought you’d… handle it. Like you always do.”
Mike walked to the whiteboard.
He picked up a marker.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He made four tally marks.
Then one more. Alone.
“Five people in this group,” he said. “Four didn’t read. One did. And you still expected a perfect result.”
No one breathed.
“You want credit,” he continued. “But not responsibility.”
The way he said it made my throat tighten.
He turned, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade.
“This project determines our term grade. If we fail, it’s on all of us. But if you think I’ll let your laziness drag me down—” He tapped the lone tally. “—you’re mistaken.”
Silence. Shame. Unease.
“I’ll redo the project myself. Submit it by Friday.”
A few of them opened their mouths in protest.
“You can write your own reports,” Mike added. “Explain why you did nothing.”
He packed his bag swiftly. Papers arranged perfectly, not a single corner bent.
At the door, he paused.
“If you want to act like children, don’t expect to be treated like adults.”
And then he was gone.
No slamming door. No drama.
Just... cold, echoing silence.
Everyone feared him more after that day.
Rumors spread fast.
Mike doesn’t need anyone.
Mike likes to work alone.
But the truth?
I believe Mike didn’t want to be alone.
He just didn’t trust anyone to care as much as he did.
Because every time he tried to depend on someone, they gave up halfway.
Or expected him to clean up their mess. And Mike had no tolerance for that.
He built his walls high and thick. Not because he enjoyed the solitude, but because disappointment hurt more than loneliness.
Most students had gone home by now, leaving the school grounds quiet… almost peaceful.
I clutched my notebook against my chest as I made my way toward the front gate, taking the long route through the courtyard.
My usual detour to avoid the crowd.
That’s when I saw him.
Mike.
Sitting on a bench under the sakura tree.
Alone.
His elbows rested on his knees, head slightly bowed.
His school bag sat beside him, untouched. No open books. No perfect composure.
He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t working.
He was… just sitting there.
Still. Silent.
Mike always looked so composed. So untouchable.
But now, with his shoulders slumped and the evening light softening his features,
He looked... tired.
Not just physically. But deeply, achingly tired.
A breeze stirred the sakura branches, and a few petals floated down, landing gently on his blazer.
He didn’t brush them off.
I stepped out from behind the pillar. Slowly. Quietly.
He didn’t move.
Was he asleep?
He didn’t look like the terrifying class president everyone feared.
He looked human.
Lonely, even.
I opened my bag, pulled out the strawberry milk I hadn’t touched at lunch, and walked toward him.
Then, I placed it on the bench beside him.
Why?
I don’t know either. Maybe it was just… impulse.
A form of cheering him on, I guess.
“You’ve worked hard,” I whispered softly.
Then I turned and walked away, heart thudding quietly behind my ribs.
Mike worked harder than anyone.
And I wished someone... anyone, noticed that.
Not just his grades. Not just his authority.
But the person underneath it all.
I noticed.
And every day…
I admired him more and more.
