Mao: The Quite One

It began subtly.

A few conversations that stopped when he entered the room.

Group chats he wasn't added to.

Nods from teachers that felt… emptier than before.

The school moved on.

And Mao—once the genius, the leader, the heart of the council—felt it.

He wasn't needed anymore.

Not admired.

Not feared.

Just… tolerated.

---

Arisa, now walking freely with her new crowd, smiled at him once in the hallway.

A cruel, knowing smile.

And Mao's heart burned—not with love, but with something sharper.

He hated her.

Not because she hurt him romantically.

But because she helped build the storm he was now drowning in.

---

"I'm just tired," he told Rika one evening, staring blankly at his untouched tea.

"No," she said quietly, "you're hurt."

He didn't respond.

Because deep down, he was.

He had lost more than just attention—he'd lost purpose.

Without his titles, his rank, the admiration…

Who was Mao?

---

The spiral came fast.

He stopped attending council meetings.

Stopped answering messages from Mika and Kenji.

Skipped meals.

Skimmed through exams.

Not failing—but fading.

---

Then came the letter.

Not from the school.

Not from a teacher.

But from himself.

A draft he'd written months ago, planning next year's goals.

"Lead with balance. Be better than the bitterness. Don't win—change."

He didn't remember writing it. But the words pierced through him like sunlight through fog.

---

The next morning, he woke early.

Washed his face.

Packed his bag.

And for the first time in weeks, he showed up to school with a notebook—not to study, but to plan.

Not for grades.

Not for glory.

But for rebirth.

---

He called Kenji first.

Then Mika.

Then Rika.

"I think I need to start over," he said.

They didn't say "we told you so."

They just showed up.

---

Mao wasn't number one.

Wasn't a leader.

Wasn't admired.

But he was awake again.

And that mattered more than anything else.