It had been two days since the prefect-ship elections.
For Sammy, life had never looked better.
He had won a position, and the news transformed him into a walking celebration. The entire journey home, he moved with the swagger of a king returning from battle.
"I told you," one of his friends said proudly. "No one could beat you."
"Now that you're a prefect," another added, puffing his chest out, "we can do whatever we like."
Sammy stopped walking dramatically and adjusted his shirt.
"That makes it worse for you," he said.
They stared.
"It means I can punish you whenever I want."
Silence.
Pure fear.
Then Sammy burst into laughter so loudly that birds lifted from a nearby tree.
"Relax! You idiots are safe."
His friends exhaled at once, muttering curses at him while laughing too.
That was Sammy.
He loved people.
He loved power.
He loved making an entrance, even in ordinary conversations.
And people loved him back.
We walked with the crowd of students flooding the roads outside Hilltop Secondary School. The noise was unbearable—voices overlapping, shoes scraping dust, arguments, jokes, songs, gossip, whistles.
To most people, it was harmless energy.
To me, it felt like drowning.
Students gradually peeled away in different directions as they reached their streets. With every person who left, the air became easier to breathe.
By the time Sammy's last friend waved goodbye, only the two of us remained.
Peace.
Finally.
Sammy draped an arm over my shoulder as we continued walking.
That simple gesture grounded me.
There was something powerful about having an older brother who made the world feel less sharp.
"Do prefects get paid?" I asked quietly.
Sammy laughed so hard he nearly tripped.
"No, little bro."
"Then why does everyone care so much?"
"Because it's power," he said. "At school, prefects are next after teachers and administrators. We help control students, maintain order, all that serious nonsense."
I nodded slowly.
Power.
People chased it everywhere.
Even in school.
By the time we got home, I was exhausted beyond words.
The heat had drained me.
The noise had drained me.
Trying to understand half the subjects in class had drained me most of all.
I kicked off my shoes in the sitting room and collapsed into a chair with the desperation of a dying man.
At last.
Silence.
Wind slipped through the open window, stirring the curtains. Leaves rustled outside. My heartbeat slowed.
I closed my eyes.
I was home.
"Whose shoes are these?!"
My eyes snapped open.
Mother stood in the doorway, staring at the pair I had abandoned in the middle of the floor.
Danger.
I jumped up so quickly the chair squeaked.
"Take them away from here!"
She pointed toward the shoe rack like a judge sentencing a criminal.
I picked them up in defeat.
Sometimes I wondered if mothers survived purely on timing.
As I carried the shoes down the hallway, a strange heaviness settled over me.
Not physical tiredness.
Something deeper.
Why did every day feel the same?
Wake up.
Rush.
School.
Pressure.
Return.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Everyone moved with urgency, chasing something no one fully explained.
Success.
Status.
Approval.
But where did it end?
And if everyone was running, why did so few people seem happy?
The questions came suddenly and all at once.
Why weren't we taught how to understand ourselves?
Why did no one care about kindness as much as grades?
Why did creativity matter less than obedience?
Why did growing up feel like becoming smaller?
I stood still in the corridor, shoes in hand, my thoughts racing faster than my body ever could.
"Josh!"
Mother's voice cut through everything.
I blinked.
She was still waiting.
Still annoyed.
Still very real.
I placed the shoes where they belonged and returned to the sitting room.
But the strange feeling remained.
Like something inside me had begun to wake up.
The next morning at school, I entered class earlier than usual.
The room was half-empty.
Sunlight spilled across desks.
Fans turned lazily overhead.
And Ryan was already there.
Of course he was in the back seat.
One leg stretched out.
Shirt sleeves rolled.
Head bent over a sketchbook.
He didn't look up when I approached.
"You're early," I said.
"I know."
"You usually answer people while looking at them."
"I know."
I frowned.
Then he glanced up suddenly.
And smiled.
My chest forgot its duties.
"You kept thinking about me yesterday," he said casually.
I nearly dropped my bag.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I did not."
He tapped the seat beside him.
"Sit down, liar."
I sat.
Mostly because my legs felt weak.
Ryan turned the sketchbook toward me.
It was a drawing.
Of me.
Standing in the classroom doorway on my first day—nervous, stiff, eyes wide with panic.
Even in pencil, I looked painfully obvious.
"You drew this?" I asked softly.
"Mhm."
"When?"
"During class."
I stared at the page.
It was good.
Too good.
"You were watching me that much?"
"I notice interesting things."
He said it lightly.
But his eyes stayed on me.
And for some reason, I couldn't breathe properly.
Then he tore the page out carefully and handed it over.
"A gift," he said.
I looked at him.
"Why?"
Ryan leaned back in his chair.
"Because I wanted to."
The bell rang before I could reply.
Students flooded in.
Noise returned.
But all morning, one thought refused to leave me.
No one had ever looked at me long enough to make a drawing of me.