The shift was subtle enough that no one could point to it.
But Micheal felt it.
Teema stopped mentioning Daniel's name as often when she talked to him. Not deliberately—just less. Conversations that once included we slowly turned into I. When Daniel did come up, it was usually followed by a pause, as if she were testing how much space the name still occupied.
Micheal never commented on it.
He simply listened.
That was his strength. It always had been.
One afternoon, rain trapped half the school under the covered walkways. Students clustered in small groups, waiting it out. Teema stood near the wall, arms folded, staring at the downpour.
"You heading home?" Micheal asked, stopping beside her.
"Eventually," she said. "Daniel said he'd meet me, but he's stuck with a teacher."
Micheal nodded. "Want company?"
She hesitated—just for a second. Then, "Sure."
They leaned against the wall, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. The rain drummed steadily, filling the silence.
"I feel bad sometimes," Teema said quietly.
"About what?"
"About leaning on you," she admitted. "It's not fair."
Micheal kept his gaze on the rain. "You're not leaning. You're just talking."
"That's still something," she said. "I don't want to confuse things."
He turned to her then. Not intense. Not pleading. Just honest.
"I'm not confused," he said.
Her breath caught slightly. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," Micheal replied. "I just… don't want you to feel like you're doing something wrong by being yourself."
She looked away. "You make it sound simple."
"Only because I don't pretend it is," he said.
Daniel arrived moments later, apologizing again. This time, when he slipped an arm around Teema, it felt less natural—like a correction instead of an instinct.
Micheal noticed.
That night, Daniel didn't message Teema as usual.
Instead, he messaged Micheal again.
> Are you trying to take her back?
The words sat heavy on the screen.
Micheal typed. Deleted. Typed again.
> I'm not trying to take anything that isn't willing to come.
There was a long pause before the reply.
> That's not an answer.
Micheal stared at the message, jaw tight.
> Maybe it is.
He put the phone down before Daniel could respond.
For the first time, Micheal felt the weight of what he was doing—not as guilt, but as consequence. Things were moving now. Lines were no longer theoretical.
At school the next day, Teema avoided being alone with either of them. She laughed louder than usual, spoke faster, smiled when she shouldn't have had to.
Micheal recognized it.
Overwhelm.
During lunch, she sat beside him instead of across from Daniel. Not touching. Not close. But not distant either.
Daniel noticed. He always did now.
"You're quiet today," Micheal said softly.
She shrugged. "Just tired."
"Of choosing?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
She stiffened. "I didn't say that."
"I know," he said quickly. "Sorry."
But the damage was done.
Later, Teema pulled him aside near the stairwell.
"You can't say things like that," she whispered.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you mean," she said, voice shaking. "That's the problem."
Micheal searched her face. "I'm not trying to pressure you."
"But you are," she said. "Even if you don't mean to."
The words landed harder than any accusation.
He stepped back slightly. "Then tell me what you want."
She opened her mouth—then closed it again.
"I don't know," she admitted.
That answer should have stopped him.
Instead, it anchored him.
Because uncertainty meant possibility.
That night, Micheal sat alone at his desk, replaying her words over and over. I don't know. Not no. Not stop. Not choose him.
Just uncertainty.
He exhaled slowly.
This was the point of no return.
If he stepped back now, the distance would close behind him. Daniel would steady things. Teema would settle.
If he stayed—
He didn't finish the thought.
He already knew the answer.
Micheal picked up his phone and typed a message to Teema, then erased it. Typed again.
> I'm here. Whatever you need. No expectations.
He sent it.
As the screen dimmed, a familiar tightness settled in his chest—not fear, not regret.
Resolve.
He had crossed enough lines to know he wouldn't turn back easily.
And somewhere beneath the careful words and quiet intentions, Micheal accepted a truth he hadn't yet said out loud:
He wasn't just waiting anymore.
He was competing.
And competitions, he was learning, rarely ended without someone losing something they couldn't get back.
-----
The message sat between them like a promise neither of them had agreed to define.
Teema didn't reply that night.
Micheal told himself it was fine. He told himself silence didn't mean rejection—it meant she was thinking. And thinking, he'd learned, was where he could still exist.
The next morning, she found him by the lockers before class.
"You didn't have to send that," she said quietly.
"I know," Micheal replied. "I wanted to."
She studied his face, searching for something—pressure, expectation, a demand hidden behind calm. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't seem to find it.
"That's what scares me," she said.
Micheal didn't ask why. He already knew.
They walked to class together anyway.
Daniel watched them from down the hall. He didn't interrupt. He didn't follow. That absence was louder than confrontation.
During lunch, Daniel finally sat across from Micheal instead of beside Teema.
"So this is what it's like now?" Daniel asked, voice low.
Micheal kept eating. "Like what?"
"Like I'm the one catching up," Daniel said. "All the time."
Micheal looked up then. "No one's keeping score."
Daniel let out a humorless laugh. "You are."
The words struck closer than Micheal wanted to admit.
"I'm just not pretending things are simple," Micheal said. "That doesn't make me the problem."
Daniel leaned back, eyes tired. "It makes you the risk."
Teema returned mid-conversation, sensing the tension immediately.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Nothing," Micheal said at the same time Daniel said, "We're talking."
She frowned. "About me?"
Daniel hesitated. Micheal didn't.
"About where everyone stands," Micheal said.
Teema's shoulders sagged. "I didn't ask for this."
"I know," Micheal said softly. "But it's happening anyway."
That afternoon, she skipped walking home with either of them.
Micheal watched her leave alone, guilt pressing against his resolve like a warning he refused to read.
That evening, Samson called him out.
"You're changing," Samson said bluntly. "And not in a good way."
Micheal leaned against the railing outside the gym. "I'm just done being invisible."
"You're not invisible," Samson said. "You're just not chosen."
Micheal's jaw tightened. "Not yet."
Samson stared at him. "You hear yourself?"
Micheal didn't answer.
Because the truth was uncomfortable, and he'd already decided discomfort was a price he could pay.
Later, alone in his room, Micheal replayed the day—the looks, the pauses, the way Teema's voice had wavered when she asked what was happening.
He hadn't planned to hurt anyone.
But plans changed.
He thought of Daniel's tired eyes.
Of Teema's uncertainty.
Of the space he now occupied so naturally it felt earned.
If love was a balance, then Daniel was already losing it.
Micheal lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, pulse steady.
He knew what he was doing now. Fully. Clearly.
And instead of stopping, he leaned into the knowledge.
Because the fear of becoming someone he didn't recognize was quieter than the fear of watching her choose someone else again.
Outside, the night moved on—unaware, indifferent.
Inside, Micheal made himself a promise he wouldn't admit to anyone else:
He wouldn't be patient anymore.
He wouldn't be fair.
He would be present, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
Whatever it took.
Teema was his, always has been and always will be.