Mao: The Quite One

The teachers now praised him.

Mao no longer had to raise his hand twice. They called on him first.

Asked for his opinion during lectures.

Cited his work.

Recommended him for exclusive scholarships, internships, university panels.

Once, they'd ignored him.

Now, they admired him.

But the hallways, once filled with quiet hope, now felt like long, polished tunnels of silence.

Students greeted him—always polite, always distant.

He had become more of a figure than a friend. A role model. A symbol.

Not someone to sit next to at lunch.

Not someone you confessed your worries to.

He walked the halls like a king—but no longer with the king inside him.

Even Arisa, now little more than a painful echo, had stopped pretending.

They hadn't spoken since the day he saw her on that street.

She hadn't explained.

He hadn't asked.

And in the silence that followed, the truth settled like dust:

Whatever they had... was gone.

---

Mao still scored the highest.

Still led meetings.

Still received invitations from prestigious universities.

But at the end of the day, when he packed his bag, no one waited at the gate.

No group huddled around him in the courtyard.

His phone didn't buzz.

He passed by old hangout spots—once filled with laughter and arguments and awkward romances—and saw only strangers now.

---

One afternoon, as a teacher handed him another glowing recommendation letter, she smiled warmly and said:

> "You're going to do great things, Mao."

He bowed politely.

But inside?

All he could think was:

> Then why does it feel like I'm losing everything else?