I once watched a movie where the villain's grand design was to snip the human population in half. "How shallow," I'd muttered as the credits rolled—the kind of words that slip out with the unearned arrogance of youth. But seconds bled into moments, trickling away like sand through a desperate grip. As the days piled up, bringing experiences that chipped away at my naivety, the morning mist finally began to lift. I started to realize there was a grain of truth in that villain's philosophy. It's a bitter pill to swallow, honestly; it sticks in the back of your throat. But with my mind constantly a-whir—thoughts colliding and spinning like shrapnel—I eventually had to lean into the slap of reality.
But hey, let's save the existential dread for the main course.
Right now, I'm stuck in a respectable enough private school—a three-story complex where the cream-colored paint has started to flake away at the seams. It's a sprawling campus, spanning everything from elementary to high school, with little pockets of gardens tucked between the blocks. By local standards, the facilities are top-notch. Every classroom is armed with an air conditioner—or "AC" as we call it—that assaults the room with a chill so sharp it bites. During morning lessons, I usually spend half my time rubbing my palms together just to feel a spark of warmth.
The rest of the place is... adequate. There's a library filled with wooden shelves that smell of rising damp and ancient paper; a canteen forever thick with the scent of grease and the rhythmic clack-clack of spoons against plastic plates; and two large courts—one paved for basketball and another a grassy patch that turns a sickly jaundiced yellow in the dry season. It's a self-contained little ecosystem. A small town unto itself.
"I like you, Gwen," I told her.
The corners of my mouth hitched upward, trembling as I tried to force a smile. I'd gone for "confident," but I knew it looked like a wooden mask pinned to my face.
Yes, that was me. I liked her—perhaps for the first and only time in the history of my life. For some reason, there was a phantom fist in my chest, squeezing my heart and letting go in a jagged, erratic rhythm. It was infuriating. Even though I'd rehearsed the confession a thousand times in the mirror, I hated the reality of it. Why does this feeling even exist? Is it a social glue? A biological comfort? Or just nature's way of ensuring the species carries on? The questions rolled around my skull like a snowball turning into an avalanche.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
Her eyebrows knitted together, two thin lines meeting in a sharp 'V' that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up like grass in a cold gale.
"I mean... yeah. Something like that," I stammered, trying to keep my composure. My voice sounded an octave too high, echoing tinny and desperate in my own ears. Damn it. Why was I falling apart? My palms were slick; I could feel the sweat pooling in the creases of my hands. Damn it all. I hated this feeling, even as I leaned into the intensity of my crush. "So... what do you think?" I added, the words feeling like lead weights on my tongue.
I really did like her. I liked her short black hair that caught the light like polished silk. I liked the silver star earrings that danced whenever she tilted her head. I liked her eyes—sharp, narrow, and so piercing I felt like an open book. And I liked her mind; she always had an answer that left me reeling. Damn it, I liked every microscopic detail I'd cataloged over the months.
But once again, reality slapped me like a freezing wave. Gwen looked at me with pure irritation—brow arched, lips curled into a faint, mocking smirk.
"Why would you even say that?" she snapped. "We're in elementary school, you idiot."
The words landed like a physical blow to the gut. Without another word, she turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing sharp and final against the corridor floor.
In a scene ripped straight from the low-budget melodramas I loved to mock, a gust of wind kicked up, tossing my messy black hair across my eyes. The afternoon sun felt strangely cold, despite its golden hue. In the distance, birds chirped—a loud, mocking soundtrack to my humiliation. I stood there, eyes wide and unblinking, watching her silhouette shrink as she walked away. My mouth hung open, gasping for air like a fish tossed onto the sand. I wanted to call out, to tell her I'd make her the luckiest girl on earth—the words were screaming in my head—but not a single sound made it past my lips.
God, how pathetic. If I had a time machine, I wouldn't use it to fix the confession; I'd use it to stay far away from her in the first place. Where did I go wrong? Was it me, or just some cruel cosmic joke? She was the one who approached me. She was the one who teased me with those little smiles that I clearly misread. She was the one who asked for help with her studies, sitting so close our shoulders brushed. Had I jumped the gun? Was I just a puppet on her strings? Or had I simply drowned in a fever dream of my own making?
It was the most humiliating moment of my life. And I say that as someone who once face-planted during a track meet and someone who's stood at a podium with a shaking voice and a sweat-soaked collar. This was worse.
Later, the evening sky offered a brief reprieve. The purplish-orange gradient—a soft bruise of color—calmed the waves pounding against my skull. I sat on the concrete terrace of my house, the cold stone seeping through my clothes, taking deep, lung-bursting breaths. I tried to rewind the tape of my life, looking for the moment the gears started to grind.
A few years back, I'd started at this school, skipping Kindergarten A entirely. I'd done some "pre-schooling" at a local tutoring center—a cramped, dingy room with scarred wooden tables. There was nothing romantic about it. The streets outside were pockmarked with puddles of murky water; the gutters were choked with a foul slurry of plastic, rotting leaves, and rusted cans. When the heavy rains came, the whole area would drown in calf-high brown sludge. Back then, I was happy for the floods because they meant a break from the routine. But soon, the realization hit me like a cold shower: I was falling behind. So, I started grinding. I spent my nights with books propped on my lap, a desk lamp burning into my retinas.
Long story short, I made the cut. I got into the private school, jumping straight into Kindergarten B. It felt like a triumph—a fresh start on a clean, white slate.
But social grace didn't come with the tuition. I was the "quiet kid"—the one who lived behind the covers of a book and spoke in a ghost of a whisper. My classmates already seemed like a tight-knit tribe; they laughed and traded inside jokes as if they'd known each other since the womb. I wondered if it was because they'd all survived Kindergarten A together. Whatever the reason, I was an outsider—a tiny, silent island in their sea of laughter.
"Alright, children, let's get to know one another!" our teacher chirped, her smile so wide her teeth gleamed.
"Okay, Ma'am!" the class chimed in unison. Their high-pitched voices filled the room. My lips moved, but the sound came out late, buried under the chorus.
The classroom was beautiful, like something out of a picture book. The teachers had decorated it with obsessive care. Bright yellow stars were plastered on the walls, though a few were curling at the points. Colorful blocks—smelling of fresh plastic—were scattered across the shelves. From the ceiling, origami animals dangled from invisible nylon threads, swaying gently in the AC's breath. I couldn't stop staring. It was a world away from the grit and grey of the slums I walked through every morning.
Then came the ritual: The Introductions.
At first, my heart beat with a nervous, hopeful rhythm. But that evaporated the moment the teacher explained the "game." It was a specialized form of torture for kids like me. We had to sing a song together until the teacher or a classmate pointed at you and asked, "And you, what is your name?" in a sugary, artificial tone that made my skin crawl.
If you aren't the shy type, you won't get it. But if you're the kid who prefers the shadows of the corner, you know exactly what I mean. Imagine the spotlight hitting you. All eyes turn. The fluorescent lights feel like interrogation lamps. Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure the kid next to you can hear it. It was social Russian Roulette.
And of course, I was the first victim.
Mrs. Eva pointed at me with a perfectly manicured finger, nodding encouragingly. Her smile was so wide her eyes were little more than slits.
"My name is Mrs. Eva," she sang out. "And you, what is your name?"
My pupils blown wide, my heart thumping a frantic boom-boom-boom against my ribs. I felt like a deer caught in high beams.
"I... my name is Lucen," I whispered. My voice cracked at the end.
I dropped my gaze to the floor, staring at the stiff black shoes my mother had bought me for the first day. From the corner of my eye, I sized up my neighbors. To my right was a kid who looked like he'd already mastered the art of being popular; he had a strange haircut—thinned out on top but trailing into a long mullet at the back.
To my left was a kindred spirit. Shoulders hunched, hands balled in his lap, eyes glued to the floor. This is it, I thought. Hang tough, buddy.
I pointed a trembling finger at him, mimicking the teacher's stiff, artificial nod. "And you, what is your name?"
The pressure shifted. The burden was his now. He had neat, center-parted hair and a round, healthy face.
"My name is Marchel," he said, his voice surprisingly steady—much firmer than mine. He turned immediately to his other side, pointing to a girl with narrow eyes and jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders like a sheet of silk. "And you, what is your name?"
The girl offered a faint, graceful smile. "My name is Gwen," she said. Her voice was clear, melodic, and utterly devoid of fear. "And you, what is your name?"
She pointed to the next person with a natural, easy flick of the wrist. And just like that, the world shifted.