Micheal didn't change all at once.
That was the dangerous part.
He still walked Teema to class when their paths crossed. Still remembered the small things—her dislike for overly sweet drinks, the way she tapped her pen when she was anxious. Still asked how her day was, still listened with the same attentiveness that had always defined him.
The difference was intention.
Before, his presence had been instinctive. Now, it was deliberate.
He learned Daniel's schedule without meaning to. Not by spying—just by noticing. Who arrived late to which class. Which afternoons Daniel stayed back for club meetings. Which days Teema waited alone near the library steps.
Micheal began to be there on those days.
"Hey," he said one afternoon, appearing beside her as she scrolled through her phone. "You waiting long?"
She looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Not really. Daniel's running late."
Micheal nodded, as if this information was new. "You always wait."
"It's fine," she said. "He's worth it."
The words stung more than Micheal expected. He smiled anyway.
"I remember when you used to hate waiting," he said lightly. "You'd get restless after five minutes."
Teema laughed. "I still do."
"But you didn't wait back then," he added, softly. "You'd just drag me along to wherever you felt like going."
Her laughter faded into something quieter. "You always let me."
"I liked that about you," Micheal said. Then, as if catching himself, he added, "Still do."
Daniel arrived moments later, slightly breathless, apologizing. Micheal stepped back easily, making space. He waved, casual and friendly, then left without another word.
He didn't linger.
That was important.
Later that week, Teema messaged him first.
> Do you remember that café near the park? The one that closed down?
Micheal stared at the screen for a few seconds before replying.
> Yeah. You used to swear their milkshakes were cursed.
> They were, she sent back.
I passed by the place today. It's reopening.
Micheal could've said we should go.
He didn't.
> That's funny, he typed.
Things don't usually come back.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
> Maybe some things are just meant to, she replied.
Micheal set his phone down, heart beating faster than he liked.
At school, Daniel grew quieter.
Not withdrawn—just watchful. Micheal noticed the way his eyes lingered when Micheal and Teema talked. The way his smiles tightened when Micheal joked with her, the way his hand stayed a second too long at her back, like reassurance.
Micheal never challenged him.
He didn't need to.
During group work in English class, Micheal ended up seated across from Teema. Daniel was absent that day—family thing, she'd said.
As they worked, the room filled with low chatter and scratching pens.
"You've been different lately," Teema said suddenly, not looking up.
Micheal kept his expression neutral. "Different how?"
"I don't know," she said. "Quieter. But also… closer?"
He paused, then shrugged. "Maybe I stopped assuming you knew what I meant."
She looked at him then. Really looked.
"That sounds like something you've been thinking about," she said.
"Maybe," he replied. "I just realized people don't always hear what you don't say."
Teema swallowed. "Are you saying I didn't listen?"
"No," Micheal said quickly. "I'm saying I didn't speak."
The bell rang before she could respond.
That night, Micheal lay awake, staring at the ceiling. A dull guilt pressed against his ribs, but he didn't push it away.
He examined it.
He hadn't lied.
He hadn't insulted Daniel.
He hadn't asked Teema to choose.
He had only reminded her.
Of history.
Of familiarity.
Of a version of herself that existed before Daniel.
If that caused doubt, was it really his fault?
The next day, Samson cornered him near the lockers.
"You're playing a careful game," Samson said quietly.
Micheal didn't pretend not to understand. "I'm just being honest."
Samson studied him. "With who?"
Micheal didn't answer.
Across the hallway, Teema laughed at something Micheal said. Daniel watched them, expression unreadable.
Micheal felt it then—a flicker of something sharp and unsettling.
Satisfaction.
He hated it.
He didn't stop.
Because for the first time since losing her, he felt like he was no longer standing still while the world moved on without him.
And once you cross a line quietly enough, it stops feeling like a line at all.
It starts feeling like progress.
------
It started to feel normal.
That unsettled Micheal more than the guilt ever had.
Teema began to seek him out in small, unremarkable ways. A seat saved beside her during assembly. A message asking if he remembered the name of a song they used to like. A casual, "Walk with me?" when Daniel was busy or late.
Each time, Micheal told himself the same thing: She's choosing this too.
He never pushed. He never asked for exclusivity. He let the moments breathe, let them appear accidental—two people crossing paths often enough that it felt inevitable.
One afternoon, they sat on the steps outside the science block, the air warm and lazy. Teema swung her legs lightly, watching students pass.
"Daniel's been stressed lately," she said, almost to herself.
Micheal kept his eyes forward. "About what?"
"Everything," she sighed. "School. Fitting in. He hates feeling like he's always catching up."
Micheal nodded slowly. "That's hard."
"He doesn't talk much when he's like that," she added. "He shuts down."
Micheal said nothing for a moment. Then, carefully, "Some people do that when they don't know how to ask for space without sounding distant."
Teema glanced at him. "You never shut down."
He smiled faintly. "I just disappear quietly."
"That's worse," she said without thinking.
The words lingered between them.
"Maybe," Micheal replied. "But at least it doesn't make anyone feel pushed away."
Teema frowned, confusion flickering across her face. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," he said gently. "I'm just saying… communication looks different on different people."
She leaned back on her hands, staring at the sky. "Sometimes I don't know if I'm doing this right."
"With Daniel?" Micheal asked.
"With everything," she said. "I feel like I'm always choosing, and every choice makes someone unhappy."
Micheal's chest tightened.
"You're allowed to choose what feels right," he said. "Not what feels fair."
She didn't respond right away.
Later that evening, Daniel messaged Micheal.
> Hey. Can we talk sometime?
Micheal stared at the screen, pulse steady.
> Sure, he replied. Anytime.
They met the next day after school, standing near the empty basketball court. Daniel looked tired—not angry, not confrontational. Just worn.
"I know something's off," Daniel said plainly. "I'm not accusing you of anything."
Micheal met his gaze. "Okay."
"I just want to understand where I stand," Daniel continued. "With Teema. With you."
Micheal considered his answer carefully.
"I don't want to hurt either of you," he said. "But I won't pretend I don't matter either."
Daniel exhaled. "That's what scares me."
There it was.
Fear.
Micheal didn't press it. He didn't deny it. He simply nodded, as if acknowledging something obvious.
"I think Teema's trying to figure things out," Micheal said. "I don't think anyone's wrong for feeling unsettled."
Daniel studied him for a long moment. "You talk like you're already halfway gone."
"Maybe," Micheal replied. "Or maybe I'm just honest about where I am."
They parted without resolution.
That night, Teema called Micheal for the first time in weeks.
"I think I messed up," she said quietly.
"With Daniel?" Micheal asked.
"Yes," she whispered. "No. I don't know."
He listened as she spoke—about feeling torn, about missing how easy things used to be, about feeling guilty for even thinking that way.
Micheal didn't interrupt.
When she finished, he said softly, "You're not wrong for feeling conflicted."
"But I am wrong for letting it happen," she said.
"Maybe," Micheal replied. "Or maybe it was already happening, and you're just noticing now."
The silence on the line stretched.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Teema said again.
"I know," Micheal answered. "You never do."
After the call ended, Micheal sat alone in the dark, phone still warm in his hand.
He should have felt victorious.
Instead, his stomach churned.
Because somewhere along the way, the line between fighting for love and reshaping someone's doubts had blurred beyond recognition.
And the worst part?
He knew exactly what he was doing now.
He just wasn't ready to stop.
Outside, the night settled quietly—unaware that something fragile was already beginning to crack.