By Monday morning, Micheal had perfected the art of being present without being obvious.
He still walked the same hallways. Still took the same seat near the back of the class. Still laughed at Samson's jokes, still answered teachers when called on. On the surface, nothing had changed. But underneath, every move was deliberate—measured like steps on thin ice.
Teema noticed.
She always did.
"Did you skip practice again?" she asked during lunch, eyes narrowing slightly as she sat across from him. Daniel hadn't arrived yet; he was probably caught up with a teacher or one of the guys from his new circle. That window of time felt intentional now, like something Micheal could step into if he chose.
"Just once," Micheal said, shrugging. "Felt like my head wasn't in it."
Teema studied him, fingers tapping lightly against her juice box. "That's not like you."
He smiled—not defensive, not forced. Familiar. "People change."
The words landed heavier than he meant them to, and for a second, something flickered across her face. Concern. Or maybe recognition. She looked away first.
"Daniel's been worried about you," she said casually, too casually.
Micheal raised an eyebrow. "Has he."
"Yeah. He thinks you don't like him."
That almost made Micheal laugh. Almost.
"I don't dislike him," Micheal replied carefully. "I just… know where I stand. That's all."
Teema's fingers stilled. She met his eyes again, searching. "And where do you think that is?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting across the cafeteria—the noise, the movement, the pairs and clusters forming and reforming. Then he looked back at her.
"Right where I've always been," he said. "Close enough to matter. Far enough to be ignored."
Her breath caught, subtle but unmistakable.
Before she could respond, Daniel appeared beside the table, his presence easy, confident now. He slipped into the seat next to Teema, their shoulders brushing without hesitation.
"Sorry I'm late," Daniel said. "Coach grabbed me."
"No worries," Teema replied quickly, smiling at him. The smile was real. That was the problem.
Micheal watched the exchange with a calm that surprised even him. This was familiar ground—Teema choosing comfort, choosing momentum. Choosing the person who stepped forward instead of waiting.
Daniel glanced at Micheal. "You good, man?"
"Yeah," Micheal said easily. "All good."
And it was true—at least on the surface.
The rest of the day unfolded like a series of small tests. Micheal answered questions Daniel didn't know. Shared inside jokes with Teema that predated Daniel's arrival. Mentioned memories casually, never possessively, just enough to remind her that history wasn't something you could replace overnight.
He didn't push.
He positioned.
After school, Teema caught up to him near the bike racks.
"You've been… different," she said.
Micheal adjusted his backpack strap. "Different how?"
"Quieter. But louder at the same time." She hesitated. "Are you okay?"
He looked at her then—really looked. At the familiar tilt of her head. The crease between her brows when she worried. The girl he'd loved carefully for too long.
"I'm fine," he said. "I just stopped pretending I don't want things."
Her heart skipped. He saw it. He didn't comment.
"That's not fair," she murmured.
"Neither is losing something you never got the chance to fight for," Micheal replied softly.
Daniel called her name from across the lot.
Teema stepped back, conflicted. "We'll talk later."
Micheal nodded. "Whenever."
As she walked away, Micheal didn't follow. He didn't rush. He didn't chase.
He let the silence do the work.
Because familiarity was powerful.
And patience—when sharpened—could become a weapon.
A chapter had begun, and Micheal was no longer waiting to see what would happen.
He was setting it up.
The first crack showed up two days later.
It wasn't dramatic. No raised voices. No accusations. Just a pause—too long to be natural.
They were all in the library, supposed to be working on a group assignment. Daniel was explaining something animatedly, his hands moving as he talked, his confidence practiced now. Teema nodded along, but her eyes kept drifting. Not to Micheal directly—never that obvious—but to the space he occupied. The empty chair beside him. The quiet way he listened without interrupting.
Daniel noticed.
He stumbled over his words once, then laughed it off. "Sorry, where was I?"
"Section three," Micheal said calmly, not looking up from his notebook. He slid the page across the table, neat, already organized. "I outlined it earlier."
Daniel blinked. "Oh. Right. Thanks."
Teema glanced between them, something unreadable tightening her expression.
Later, when Daniel stepped away to take a call, the silence settled in thick and heavy. Micheal kept writing. He didn't rush to fill it.
"You didn't have to do that," Teema said quietly.
Micheal shrugged. "It needed to be done."
"That's not what I mean."
He finally looked up at her. "Then say what you mean."
She hesitated, fingers twisting together under the table. "You've been making things… complicated."
He held her gaze. "I'm not doing anything you didn't already know how to read."
Her breath hitched. "That's exactly the problem."
Before he could answer, Daniel returned, energy forced a little too high, smile a little too quick. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," Teema said immediately.
Micheal didn't contradict her.
That night, Micheal lay awake longer than he should have. He didn't feel victorious. He didn't feel cruel. What unsettled him most was how easy it was becoming—how natural it felt to step into the gaps Daniel left behind.
He told himself he was only reminding her of what was real. What had always been there.
Still, a question lingered, sharp and unwelcome: At what point does reminding turn into manipulation?
He pushed the thought aside.
The next day, Liana cornered him by the lockers.
"You're avoiding me," she said, arms crossed, half-smile hiding the sting beneath it.
Micheal sighed. "I didn't mean to."
"But you are," she replied. "Everyone sees it."
He glanced down the hall instinctively. Teema wasn't there—but the habit itself told him everything.
"I don't want to lead you on," Micheal said gently.
Liana studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Figures. It's still her, isn't it?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
As she walked away, Micheal felt a flicker of guilt—but it passed quickly. This wasn't about collecting attention. It was about focus. About narrowing the world down to one impossible choice.
By Friday, Daniel's confidence had begun to fray at the edges.
He laughed less. Asked Teema more questions. Held her hand a second too tightly, like he was afraid she might slip away if he didn't anchor her.
And Teema noticed that too.
That afternoon, she found Micheal sitting on the bleachers, watching the football team practice without joining in. She sat beside him without asking.
"You're not playing," she said.
"I know."
"You're still watching."
"Old habits."
They sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of each other without touching. The field lights flickered on as the sky dimmed.
"You don't make this easy," she said softly.
"I never promised to," Micheal replied.
She swallowed. "Daniel thinks you're trying to undermine him."
Micheal looked at her then, expression unreadable. "And what do you think?"
Teema opened her mouth—then closed it again.
The answer scared her.
Micheal saw it in her eyes and looked away, jaw tightening. This was the edge. The dangerous part. Where intention mattered less than consequence.
"I'm not asking you to choose," he said finally. "Not yet."
Her heart pounded. "Then what are you asking?"
He stood, grabbing his bag. "Just don't pretend I don't matter."
As he walked away, Teema remained on the bleachers, chest tight, torn between the safety of what she had chosen and the gravity of what she was starting to feel again.
Behind her, Daniel called her name from the field.
She didn't answer right away.
And somewhere inside Micheal, a line he'd crossed earlier that week faded completely from view.
---
The shift became visible on Saturday.
There was a small school-organized charity match at the local field—nothing serious, just students, teachers, and a handful of parents. Micheal hadn't planned to play. He showed up late, hands in his pockets, staying near the sidelines.
Teema arrived with Daniel.
They sat together on the low concrete steps, Daniel talking animatedly as he pointed things out on the field. Teema smiled, but her attention kept drifting—first to the players warming up, then to the empty stretch of grass near the bench.
And then she saw Micheal.
He wasn't in uniform. Just a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, watching the game with quiet focus. When their eyes met, he nodded once. No smile. No pull.
It unsettled her more than if he'd waved.
"Want to grab drinks?" Daniel asked.
"In a bit," Teema replied. "I want to watch."
The first half dragged. The game was sloppy, uneven. At halftime, one of the players limped off the field, shaking his head.
"We're short," the coach muttered. "Anyone?"
Micheal didn't move.
Someone else did—Samson.
"Coach," Samson called, jerking his chin toward the sidelines. "He's right there."
The coach turned. "Micheal!"
Teema's breath caught.
Micheal hesitated just long enough for it to matter—long enough to remind himself that he hadn't planned this—then stepped forward. He pulled off his hoodie, revealing the familiar jersey underneath. He'd worn it out of habit.
Or maybe instinct.
When he stepped onto the field, something in the air shifted.
He played like someone with nothing to lose.
Clean passes. Sharp turns. No showboating—just precision. The crowd woke up slowly, then all at once. By the time Micheal scored, the cheer was loud enough to echo against the metal fence.
Teema was on her feet without realizing it.
Daniel noticed.
"Didn't know he was this good," Daniel said, half-smiling.
Teema didn't answer.
Micheal didn't look at the stands after the goal. Didn't celebrate. He just jogged back into position, jaw set, focus narrowed. That restraint—that—hit harder than any grin would have.
By the end of the game, they'd won by one point.
As the field cleared, Teema found herself moving before she'd decided to. She slipped away from Daniel, weaving through people until she reached the edge of the grass.
"Micheal," she called.
He turned, surprised—and then still.
"You didn't tell me you were playing today," she said.
"You didn't ask."
That wasn't sharp. It wasn't bitter.
It was factual.
Daniel approached a moment later, stopping a few steps behind her. The distance mattered.
"Good game," Daniel said.
"Thanks," Micheal replied easily.
An awkward beat settled between them.
"We were going to head out," Daniel added, glancing at Teema. "Unless you—"
"I'll catch up," Teema said quickly.
Daniel paused. "You sure?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
That was it. Just one word.
Daniel hesitated, then walked away.
The silence that followed was loud.
"You didn't have to stay," Micheal said.
"I wanted to," Teema replied.
They stood there, the field emptying around them, the late sun dipping low.
"You're doing this on purpose," she said finally.
Micheal met her eyes. "Am I wrong?"
She opened her mouth—then closed it again.
"That's not fair," she whispered.
"Neither is pretending things didn't change," he said. "They did. You feel it too."
Her hands curled into fists. "I chose him."
"I know," Micheal said. "I'm just reminding you why it wasn't easy."
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Teema exhaled shakily. "I don't know what you want from me."
Micheal stepped back, creating space—deliberately.
"Nothing tonight," he said. "Go. Be with him."
She stared at him, confused now. "Then why—"
"Because when you choose," Micheal finished quietly, "I want you to know what you're choosing away from."
Teema didn't move for several seconds after he walked past her.
And when Daniel called her name from the parking lot again, she answered—
—but not before looking back once more.
Micheal didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
Because for the first time, the choice she'd made didn't feel settled.
---