Brrring.
My Phone starts ringing as I'm painting an elf.
The elf stands tall and stately, but pale, posing in effortless elegance that announces centuries of training. Lean, greenish-silver armor sparkles with dew on leaves that cloak his wiry frame. Angular cheekbones and a prominent jawline form stunning lines framing his unique features. He has braided hair and eyes that blaze an alert green color—wisdom old.
In one hand, he carries a star-steel longsword, its edge softly humming with magic. The sword is equally as graceful, slender, lethal, and balanced, with a hilt covered in vines that glow with subdued light, runes etched along it.
I paint when I need to close out the world. When I am sick of pretending that I care about what people have to say, or how teachers turn every homework assignment into a matter of life and death. But today, I don't know. Something is off.
My brush glides across the canvas as though it has a destination in mind already. The paint doesn't blend as paint would have under different circumstances—it pulses. The blue swirls like smoke that refuses to disperse. The red is deeper, as though it hums with a life force.
I pause for a while, staring at it, blinking.
Odd.
My fingers hum, just a little. It trembles ever so slightly with possibility. I remind myself to calm down, to not let it spill over. In charge is what matters, and I've learned how to keep this part of myself quiescent.
I brush off the feeling and continue to paint, but I find myself noticing how nearly too smooth the brushstrokes appear. As though the canvas is reacting. As though it waits for something.
Brrring.
My phone rings again. I reach over, and the contact reads "Dad," and I immediately click yes to answer.
"Julius, it's been a few days since you called. Are you doing alright?" My father's deep voice shows concern.
"Hey Dad, I've been doing fine. I was just busy the past couple of days, sorry," I tell him.
"I just called to check up on you. Also, I'll be back home tomorrow. Can't wait to see you," my father says.
"That's awesome, dad! It's been so long since the last time I saw you," I say in excitement.
"I know, son, but I'll be back tomorrow, and we'll be together again. I have to go now, I love you and stay out of trouble," my father says to me.
I tell him to stay safe as well, and I hang up the phone.
My father has always been one of the most admirable figures in my life. For as long as I can remember, he's been my guide, teaching me everything from piloting and painting to chess, karate, foreign languages, and how to carry myself in any room. But of all the lessons he passed down, the most valuable is to stay calm, no matter the circumstances.
Life has a way of throwing people into uncomfortable, even overwhelming situations—moments where everything feels out of control. And in those moments, the ability to think clearly without panicking isn't just helpful—it's essential. Studies show that panic and high stress can reduce decision-making performance by up to 87%. That kind of impairment can be the difference between success and failure, safety and danger. Thanks to my father, I've learned how to stay steady when the pressure hits.
Reflecting on all the ways our father has influenced me, I call my older brother Wells, to share the good news.
Hi, this is Wells. Sorry, I'm currently unavailable. I'll call you back as soon as possible.
My brother never picks up the phone. He's either at work or doing research with his college professors. I'm not worried, though. He's gone dark before. Once for six months during some monk-like program. I stopped panicking after the third time.
Due to the lack of ways to reach Wells, I decided to send him a text instead.
[9:12 PM]
Hey dude, dad is gonna be back tmr
Feeling a bit tired, I close my eyes and try to go to sleep. The weight of the day pulls me under fast, like sinking into deep water.
When I open my eyes again, I find myself inside someone's house. In it, I'm renting a house with someone—I don't recognize his face, but I trust him. He tells me, "Don't go to the second floor."
Naturally, I do.
I try to stop myself. I hear the warning echoing in my head. But my feet move on their own, pulling me up the creaking stairs. Two rooms. A hallway was drowned in shadow. He follows behind me silently.
"What's in those rooms?" I ask.
"You don't want to know."
I pass the first door.
The second waits at the end of the dark corridor, like a wound in the world. I shouldn't open it. I shouldn't. But I reach for the knob, drawn in by something unexplainable.
The door creaks open.
All I can see is a woman, swaying gently from a rope. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide open, locked on mine.
Then she lifts. Slowly. Feet dangling, never touching the floor. Her body floats. Her gaze never blinks.
Terror sinks in.
I whisper something I don't understand, and my hand burns with light. A sword manifests—its hilt wrapped in verses, the crossguard shaped like a crucifix. A holy weapon born from something deeper than ink or canvas.
She charges.
I have no recollection of what happened next. Just screams—and then silence.
When I open my eyes again, bright daylight shines at my face, nearly repulsive next to the remembrance of that nightmare.
A few hours later, it was our group's turn to present our project on the history and culture of the Zulu tribe. We only have a day to prepare, but since it's fully informational, I finished my part in about 20 minutes during homeroom.
As I'm pulling up the next PowerPoint slides, a nude image of a Zulu woman shows up as the main background image.
My mind goes blank for half a second because I for sure did not put that image as part of the presentation. The only other person who could edit the PowerPoint is Will.
Why should I be surprised?
"Now, all of you might ask me why I chose this image. Well, it's because this image gives us a deeper look into traditional Zulu culture. Historically, clothing in many indigenous African tribes, including the Zulu, was minimal, not out of indecency, but because of climate, practicality, and cultural values. What we're seeing here reflects a different standard of modesty, one shaped by environment rather than Western influence."
I glare at Will with a smile—he likely thinks he got me with that stupid prank.
Sure enough, he's biting his lip, trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with silent pride like he just won some secret war. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, giving me that smug look that says, Yeah, I did that.
But as the class nods along to my explanation—some even impressed—his smirk falters just a bit. He didn't expect me to turn the game around like that. I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes before he covers it up with a shrug and a low chuckle, like he's trying to save face. Nice try, Will. Better luck next time.
I knew from the beginning that Will's the type to pull something like this—but I completely underestimated just how childish he can be. Then again, he's one of Chris's best friends, so a stunt like this isn't all that surprising.
Still… there's something off. Not about the prank. Will lives for this kind of chaos, but the way he looked at me afterward. It's not smug. Not victorious. It was quick, but I caught it: a glance, not at me, but past me. Like he was checking for something. Or someone.
And then, there was the time he bumped into me in the hallway last week—hard. I thought he was just being a jerk again, until he muttered something like, "Watch it, Julius," too low for anyone else to hear. But his tone wasn't angry. If anything, it sounded… alert.
Maybe I'm reading into things, or maybe I'm wrong. With Will, it's hard to tell where the act ends and the truth begins.
Brrring.
The bell rings as I watch the last group wrap up their presentation. It's finally lunchtime.
Unfortunately, lunch today is somehow worse than yesterday's. The only option is a sad-looking slice of frozen pizza that might've been sitting there since the school was built. I grab a tray, pick up the pizza and a little container of milk, then head over to Zach and slide into the seat next to him like usual.
"Brave choice," he says, poking the edge of my pizza with his fork like it might move.
"That slice looks like it's seen some things," I smirk.
"I wish the food were better, I'm sure the school receives a lot more funding than what they are willing to spend," Zach chuckles.
"I can almost guarantee you that whoever manages the budget took the money for a new house."
We both laugh, and for a moment, the disaster of the morning presentation fades. I take a bite of the pizza—immediately regret it—and wash it down with the milk.
He laughs again, then leans back in his seat.
"By the way, what was that slide during your Zulu presentation? That was... unexpected."
"Will happened. He slipped that in last-minute just to mess with me."
Zach raises his brows, impressed, "I figured, but you spun it like it was intentional."
Brrring.
English is my next class, and Mr. Fowler is not someone I admire. Unhygienic, disorganized, and short-tempered is what he is. The only thing he's proud of in his life is just his inheritance from his rich real estate agent parents, which technically has nothing to do with him.
"Julius, why don't you explain to us the significance of McMurphy from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?"
"I think being able to stand up to an oppressive authority and having the trait to empower others is a great characteristic, and such qualities are what inspired Chief Bromden to escape," I say confidently.
Fowler raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He lets the silence hang for a second too long before responding.
"Well, thank you for your TED Talk," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Unfortunately, this is an English class, not a motivational seminar."
Some students chuckle nervously, unsure if it's safe to laugh.
Fowler keeps going.
"McMurphy isn't some saint. He's a manipulative gambler who ended up lobotomized. But I suppose that part didn't fit into your feel-good summary, did it?"
I sit there, jaw tight, refusing to break eye contact.
He smirks. "Next time, try reading beyond the surface. Literature isn't a Hallmark card."
I clench my pen, trying to hold back everything I want to say, until my urge can't be held back.
"Sir, with all due respect, you asked me to answer the question, and I did just that. And now you're saying he's not significant, what do you want from me exactly?"
The room is silent. Some heads look in my direction quickly as if I have just triggered a bomb.
Fowler's face goes still, blinking in apparent disbelief that he's heard me. For half a second, I even notice a crack in that signature smugness—a flash of astonishment—before it is veiled again behind a glare.
He rises from behind his desk, the faint squeak of worn shoes on wood.
"Hey," he grunts, speaking in a low, icy tone, "What's this attitude?"
"Sorry, sir," I answer him firmly, "I'm simply responding to the question that you asked."
Others snort under their breath. A kid even whispers, "Damn."
Fowler's jaw tightens. Fowler paces back and forth, as if a dog is about to bark. "You think it's going to qualify you as some kind of critic to quote surface-level themes. But let one thing be known: class is about analysis, not attitude."
"With all due respect," I affirm once more, not budging, "analysis is interpretation, is it not? Different opinions? If you wanted to have me parrot you, perhaps you should have distributed it to us in an email."
The class reacts ahead of him—murmurs, hidden grins, that charged buzz for being in on something that feels bigger than a typical school day.
Fowler rises from behind his desk, clearly agitated, "Julius, get out of my class, I am not tolerating this level of disrespect."
I nod and walk out, "Okay, and a person who lacks so much intellect does not deserve to be my teacher."
He goes back behind his desk without uttering another word.
Zach, being the person he is, grabs his backpack and runs out of the class as well.
"You did not have to do all that," he says as he chases after me.
"You did not have to come after me either, but I appreciate it," I say to him, smiling, grateful that I have such a great friend.
"Course," he smiles as well.
As rational as I try to be, there are moments when I can't stop myself from saying or doing what I believe is right. It's a double-edged sword—sometimes it leads to clarity, other times to conflict. But in a society like this, where keeping quiet is often rewarded, it's usually seen as a problem.