---
Micheal learned very painfully that anger didn't always want noise.
Sometimes it wanted silence.
He went to class. Took notes. Answered questions when called on. He laughed when something was funny and nodded when someone spoke to him. From the outside, nothing about him seemed different.
But inside, everything scraped.
He stopped checking his phone the moment he woke up. Not because he didn't care—but because the first thing he felt every morning was the reminder that Teema was no longer his to reach for. That even if she texted, it wouldn't mean the same thing.
So he waited.
He let hours pass before replying. Let conversations end where they used to continue. Let her presence become something he acknowledged instead of leaned into.
At school, Teema tried at first.
She sat beside him in class when there was space. Asked him about practice. Commented on things he used to care about. Micheal answered politely. Calmly.
Never fully.
Daniel stayed close to her now. Not possessive. Just present. The kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself. Micheal hated how natural it looked.
He hated himself more for noticing.
The anger came in waves.
Not the explosive kind. The quiet, bitter kind that settled in his chest and stayed there, heavy and constant. It followed him onto the field during practice, into the shower afterward, into the moments just before sleep when there was nothing left to distract him.
He ran more.
Not to escape—just to feel something burn that wasn't inside his head.
One evening, Samson found him sitting on the bleachers long after practice had ended.
"You gonna head home?" Samson asked.
"In a bit."
Samson sat beside him. The field lights buzzed overhead.
"You're handling this too well," Samson said.
Micheal let out a short breath. "I'm not."
"You're not yelling. You're not spiraling."
"I'm just… storing it," Micheal replied quietly.
Samson frowned. "That's worse."
Micheal didn't respond.
He didn't know how to explain that he wasn't angry at Teema for choosing Daniel.
He was angry at himself—for believing effort could outweigh timing. For thinking staying longer meant staying mattered more.
He was angry at how invisible his loss felt. How easily the world moved on while he stayed stuck carrying something no one could see.
At night, he replayed moments he wished he'd handled differently. Things he should've said. Times he should've spoken sooner. Opportunities he'd mistaken for guarantees.
He never sent the messages he typed.
He never told Teema how loud it all felt inside him.
Instead, he smiled when she passed him in the hallway. He nodded at Daniel. He kept his anger folded neatly where no one could touch it.
That was the hardest part.
Not the pain.
The restraint.
Because part of him wanted to ask her why she hadn't chosen him.
Another part wanted to tell her he would've waited.
And the quietest, angriest part knew none of it would change the truth.
So he stayed silent.
And in that silence, Micheal began to understand something he hadn't wanted to before:
Some love doesn't end in a fight.
It ends in endurance.
And endurance, when no one sees it, is its own kind of breaking.
---
The anger didn't explode.
That was the problem.
It stayed inside Micheal—compressed, contained, sharpening instead of fading. It followed him through hallways and classrooms, sat beside him during practice, lay awake with him at night. He learned how to breathe through it, how to smile without meaning it, how to keep his voice even while something restless twisted in his chest.
No one noticed.
That was almost insulting.
Teema didn't notice either—not at first. She still spoke to him gently, still checked in with that careful tone people used when they were afraid of hurting you. Micheal answered politely. Briefly. He began to pull away in small, deniable ways. Short replies. Missed moments. Excuses that sounded reasonable.
Distance without confrontation.
Daniel filled the silence easily.
That was what finally broke something in Micheal—not the dating, not the hand-holding, not even the looks they shared when they thought no one was watching. It was how replaceable Micheal suddenly felt. How quickly his absence became normal.
One afternoon, Micheal lingered behind the bleachers long after football practice ended. The field was empty, the grass torn up where cleats had dug in. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
He replayed everything.
Every time he'd held back.
Every moment he'd chosen restraint over risk.
Every chance he'd convinced himself would come again.
Daniel hadn't waited.
Daniel hadn't been careful.
Daniel had taken the space Micheal had politely left open.
The thought burned.
"I let this happen," Micheal muttered to himself.
But the next thought came sharper, colder.
I don't have to let it stay this way.
That was when the anger shifted.
It stopped being passive.
That night, Micheal didn't distract himself. He didn't numb the feeling. He sat in the dark at his desk, phone in his hand, scrolling through things he'd avoided before—old conversations, pictures, moments that proved something had once existed between him and Teema that Daniel could never fully understand.
He wasn't imagining it.
What he and Teema had was real.
And real things didn't disappear just because someone else showed up on time.
His jaw tightened.
If Daniel had won by being bold, then Micheal would stop being gentle.
If Daniel had benefited from timing, Micheal would interfere with it.
Not loudly.
Not stupidly.
Strategically.
He thought about Daniel's weak spots—the things he'd overheard, the insecurities he'd noticed, the way Daniel still tried a little too hard to belong. The way he looked at Teema like she was something he was afraid to lose.
Fear could be used.
Micheal hated that part of himself for a brief moment.
Then he decided hatred was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He wasn't going to push Teema away from Daniel directly. That would only make her defensive. No—he would let doubt do the work. Let distance grow naturally. Let cracks form where none were obvious yet.
He would be present.
Attentive.
Unavoidable.
Not as a rival.
As a reminder.
That night, Micheal opened his notes app again. This time, what he wrote wasn't gentle.
Stop being noble.
Stop waiting for fairness.
If he can take, so can you.
He paused, fingers hovering, then added one more line.
Winning matters more than being liked.
When he finally lay down, his heart was racing—not with fear, but with resolve. He knew this path wasn't clean. He knew it might cost him something important.
But he also knew this:
Losing her quietly had hurt worse than any consequence he could imagine now.
Tomorrow, he wouldn't just try.
He would interfere.
He would disrupt.
He would fight for what he believed was already his.
Even if it meant becoming someone Teema might never fully recognize.
And in the dark, with the anger steady and focused inside him, Micheal accepted that price.
He was going to win her back even if the world had to burn for it.