CHAPTER NINETEEN: CHIT CHAT WITH JOHN
He turned to look at me, his eyes quiet yet heavy with unspoken thoughts. With a small nod, he muttered, "I am just uncomfortable talking to people I've just met. I hate sharing things with strangers." His voice was calm, steady, but underneath it, I caught the hint of a wall he had built around himself.
I studied him for a moment, and for the first time since I had sat beside him, I felt like he wasn't brushing me off out of pride or arrogance—it was simply who he was. A private person. "I get it now," I said softly, offering the faintest smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't know." Then I turned my gaze back to my book, not wanting to press further and worsen his discomfort.
Moments of silence stretched between us. The rustle of papers, the occasional scrape of a chair, and the steady breathing of other students in the class filled the air. But John said nothing. My mind began to wander. Was he still uncomfortable with me? Did he regret opening up that little bit just now?
"It's not really your fault for not knowing," he finally said, his jaw tight as if the words resisted leaving his mouth. "I was the one that talked to you anyhow. That's why."
The way he clenched his jaw made it seem like he was forcing himself to say it, as though apologies didn't come easily to him. I could feel it—something about him wasn't quite like before. I wondered, with unease, if someone had threatened him or pressured him to act differently.
"I actually understand," I replied, my voice low, trying to ease the uncomfortable air we were breathing in together. "Let's just read."
He didn't respond, but his silence didn't feel hostile anymore. Instead, he buried himself in his book, eyes locked on the text as though it were the only safe place he could rest.
I debated with myself whether to speak again. Curiosity itched at me. Should I ask? Would he get angry? Finally, I whispered, "Can I ask you a question?" My eyes shifted to his side profile, studying the way he frowned slightly in concentration.
"Go on," he said without looking up, his tone neutral but not dismissive.
"Okay… but if you don't want to answer, you can just choose not to." I hesitated, almost biting my tongue, but the question had lived in me for days.
This time, he turned, his eyes catching mine, as if curious to hear what I dared to ask. "I'm listening."
"The scar," I said quietly, pointing to the mark that cut across his skin. "Can I ask how you got it?"
His reaction was immediate—his gaze darted away, and he exhaled sharply, the weight of the sigh sinking between us. "Why are you still on that question?" he asked, his voice low but tense. He didn't look at me.
"I was just concerned," I said honestly, shifting in my seat.
"Why are you concerned?" he snapped gently, his eyes finally finding mine again. "We just met."
His slow, deliberate turn of the head, the intensity of his stare—it was enough to make me swallow my words. But I forced myself to explain. "Don't take it wrongly. I'm not crushing on you. I just… I'm always concerned about the people around me. That's just how I am."
He gave a small, almost bitter laugh before looking away. "Then exclude me from that 'everyone.'" He flipped a page of his book with a finality that made my chest ache.
"I can't exclude you," I replied softly, shaking my head. "You're a human being as well."
At that, he paused. For the first time, I saw something flicker in his eyes—a test, maybe. "What is it?" he asked, his voice sharper. "If I was being beaten by seniors, what would you have done?" His gaze pinned me down.
My heart skipped. "Seniors? Why?" I asked, genuinely confused. From what I knew, mature people didn't act without reason.
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "You're so oblivious. Seniors beat juniors if they don't do what they want." His voice carried a weary truth.
I remembered Victoria telling me similar stories—how cruel some seniors could be, leaving scars on younger students without consequence.
"That's terrible," I murmured. "But why can't you report them?"
The look John gave me could cut glass. His irritation was plain. "That is the most annoying response I've ever heard," he said, his lips curling into a half sneer.
I winced. "I'm sorry… but I think it might help."
"Again," he said firmly, his eyes narrowing, "think before you talk. The teachers will punish the senior, but that doesn't stop them. If anything, it makes things worse." With that, he turned back to his book, dismissing the topic.
"That is very bad," I muttered.
"Enough," he snapped, but not loudly. "It's not helping at all." He reached into his bag and pulled out a small jotting notebook, scribbling something with quick, sharp movements.
I turned to my own notes, though my thoughts were restless, circling his words. How could someone endure something like that? How many scars were hidden beneath his silence?
Without turning to him, I whispered, "I'll tell my brother to help you out."
That caught his attention. His head snapped toward me, confusion clouding his face. "You have a brother in this school?"
I smiled faintly, though his surprise stung a little. Did people not think Francis and I looked alike? Somehow, that hurt.
"Yes," I said, lifting my chin. "I have a brother in the senior class."
John studied me carefully before nodding. "You look like someone who should be the firstborn," he muttered, then looked back at his book. "Well, it's cool you've got a brother in senior school."
"I guess so," I shrugged.
"What's his name?" he asked, his eyes curious now.
"Francis," I said. "His name is Francis."
His reaction was almost comical. "Wow. Senior Francis?" His eyes widened as if the name carried weight. "Now I see the resemblance. You two do look alike."
"Whatever," I said, brushing it off with a shrug.
John smiled faintly. "Your brother might be cool, but he's sometimes cold to juniors. I like him, though. He's not like other seniors who treat juniors like dogs. Sometimes, he even supports us when another senior sends us on too many errands. He's also… cheerful."
I felt a warmth spread through me, pride mixing with affection. "I know him as a very responsible and caring brother," I replied, nodding.
John's smile faded. "But asking for his help won't do me any good. It'll hurt my reputation. I'll have to decline."
Before I could answer, the bell rang, signalling the end of prep. The room stirred as students began packing their bags.
"I hope you'll be okay," I said, slipping my books into my bag.
"I hate that you worry for me when I'm okay," he muttered, stuffing his books into his own bag.
I stood, zipping my bag, and looked at him. "I'm sorry if my concern feels like too much."
"Floral, let's go," Morayo called as she and Victoria stood behind me, ready to leave.
John shifted awkwardly before glancing at us. "You don't need to apologise," he said quickly, though he looked uncomfortable. Then he straightened, offering a brief "Bye!" before walking out of the class.
Victoria leaned close to me, grinning. "Cool, you two are already friendly?"
"Yeah, we're closer now…" I said, shaking my head at her teasing tone. Then, with a sly smile, I added, "Don't worry. I'll tell him about your crush."
Her face flushed immediately, and I laughed as we left the classroom together.