Mao: The Quite One

The midterm break passed quietly.

No drama.

No confessions.

No life-altering decisions.

Just Mao… continuing.

When school resumed, the election for Academic Leader was barely contested.

No one dared run against him.

The teachers supported him unanimously.

The students applauded out of habit.

He accepted the position again—with the same calm voice, the same practiced nod, the same steady smile.

But something felt off.

Not to them.

To him.

---

Each meeting he led was flawless.

Each project he submitted was praised.

Each speech was eloquent.

Each result, top-tier.

But the late nights started stretching longer.

The silence in his room grew heavier.

The outlines of old trophies collected dust, and Mao couldn't remember why they had once made him proud.

He wasn't tired of winning.

He was tired of what winning had cost him.

---

Arisa remained present—always just enough to count, never enough to feel whole.

They didn't fight.

They didn't hold hands anymore either.

And yet, they never called it off.

Maybe because Mao didn't have the energy to start again.

Maybe because Arisa, like him, didn't want to admit that the version of them that once made sense… was gone.

---

One evening, after staying at school late to finish a student report, Mao stood in the empty hallway and looked out the window at the setting sun.

His reflection in the glass looked flawless.

Hair neat. Shirt tucked. Eyes sharp.

But inside?

His chest felt heavy.

His thoughts slow.

His heart numb.

He touched the glass gently, his voice quiet:

> "Is this really all there is?"

No one answered.

---

He was still the leader.

Still number one.

Still the student every teacher trusted.

But cracks were forming under the surface.

And even Mao didn't know how long he could hold everything together.