It all started coming back to him.
The memories hit John like a wave the moment his eyes landed on her. Rachel. Standing just a few feet away from him, in the hallway they once used to walk together so casually, everything from a few weeks ago came crashing back into his mind.
Her confession.
His rejection.
The kiss she gave him, desperate and trembling, like she wanted to freeze time, held on to any shred of hope she had left.
And then… the days she didn't show up to school. No texts. No posts. Just absence.
He remembered the guilt. Heavy, like a stone lodged in his chest. Even now, it weighed him down.
Rachel was right in front of him, but somehow she felt miles away.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything—but the words caught in his throat like dry air. His voice failed him. All that spilled out was silence.
It was Rachel who spoke first, slicing through the tension between them with a calmness that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Rachel: Hey. It's been a while.
Her voice was steady, too steady. She said it like she was greeting an old acquaintance, not someone who had once made her heart race.
John blinked and quickly tried to find his bearings. He scratched the back of his head—an old nervous habit—before managing a reply.
John: Yeah… it's been a while. How've you been?
Rachel: I've been fine.
She said it quickly, and the way her voice flattened on the word "fine" made him flinch internally. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes drifting to the floor. She wouldn't look at him. That was new. That was different.
Rachel: Anyway… I should probably get going. Just wanted to say hi.
She gave him a small smile—the kind you give to strangers you pass in a store. Polite. Distant. Empty. Then she turned to leave.
Something about that smile twisted inside John. His chest tightened as panic set in, subtle but undeniable. He hadn't expected her to be so cold—not Rachel. Not the girl who once looked at him like he was the only person in the world that mattered.
He took a quick step forward.
John: Wait Rachel, can we talk? Like, maybe just…
She paused.
But she didn't turn around.
Rachel: Talk about what, John?
Her voice was soft, almost too soft. Like something fragile barely holding together.
Rachel: You made your feelings clear. I respected that. So really… there's nothing left to talk about.
Finally, she looked over her shoulder. And in that brief moment, John saw it.
Pain.
Buried behind her composed expression, tucked deep behind eyes that used to light up whenever she saw him. Now they looked dimmer, older somehow—like she'd lived a thousand days in just a few weeks.
And just like that, the wall came back up. Her gaze cooled again, and she gave a small nod.
Rachel: Take care, John.
And then she walked away.
Her footsteps felt louder than the rest of the world, echoing in his ears long after she walked to her seat.
John stood there, frozen in place, the weight of everything he hadn't said pressing down on him. He didn't know what his heart wanted. He didn't even know if he had the right to chase after her now. All he knew was the hollow ache she left behind in her wake.
Unbeknownst to him, someone had been watching.
Joseph sat a few rows back, close to the window. He had seen the whole exchange, silent and still, his eyes narrowing slightly. Beside him, Ivan sat without a clue, half-asleep and tapping his pencil in a random rhythm.
John eventually made his way to his seat. His body moved automatically, but his thoughts trailed after Rachel like a shadow. He looked up and saw her sitting at the front of the class, next to Leanne. Her posture was straight, her hands folded neatly on her desk, but he knew her well enough to notice the little things.
The way her foot tapped softly against the floor.
She was trying to stay composed.
John exhaled slowly and ran his hands down his face. Focus. There was a mock exam in front of him, and he needed to keep his mind sharp.
But it didn't matter how much he tried to push it aside. The truth kept creeping back in, slipping into the corners of his mind.
There was something different about Rachel now. Her eyes, her smile, even her voice, it all felt like a version of her wrapped in distance and walls.
He stared down at his exam paper, but his heart wasn't in it. His eyes flicked to the front of the class again, and he whispered to himself, the words barely audible beneath his breath.
John: She's… different.
And somehow, that scared him more than anything else.
******
A few minutes later, the classroom door creaked open, and the teacher entered, holding a thick file tightly against her chest. The shuffle of feet and low murmurs died down as she walked briskly to the front, her heels tapping against the floor with purpose. The file contained the question papers for the upcoming mock exams, and the atmosphere shifted—an unspoken tension settled in the air.
"Everyone, take your seats," she instructed firmly.
Chairs screeched slightly as the last few students hurried to sit down. Once the teacher was satisfied that all eyes were forward and backs were straight, she placed the file neatly on the table behind her and began organizing the papers. A brief silence followed, heavy with anticipation.
Moments later, after distributing the exam sheets and just before the official start, she glanced up and gave the class a final reminder.
"This is your last call to grab anything you may have forgotten—pens, calculators, tissues... anything. Once we begin, you stay in your seats."
The class remained still, the sound of rustling paper the only response, until Rachel raised her hand with an apologetic expression.
Rachel: Sorry, I forgot my extra pen. Just a second.
The teacher gave her a brief nod of approval, and Rachel stood up, walking calmly toward the back of the classroom where all the student bags were piled.
Her steps were deliberate—calculated. But there was more than just a pen on her mind.
She crouched down beside her own bag, but her hand subtly nudged the one next to it, John's. As she pretended to rummage through her belongings, she kept her head low, eyes flickering up only once to check on her surroundings. John was bent over his paper, deep in concentration, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. The teacher's back was turned as she reviewed something on the board.
Perfect.
Rachel unzipped John's bag just a little quietly, precisely. Her hand slid inside, brushing against a familiar object: the sleek surface of his phone.
She didn't take it. She didn't need to.
Her fingers hovered just long enough to press the side button, waking the screen. And there it was.
A preview of a message still visible under the lock screen. The contact name stood out like a glowing red flag:
Lonelygirl4556.
Rachel's eyes narrowed.
A girl? Who was she? As she asked herself this questions she remembered all the times John would smile at his phone. It wasn't his usual smile. It was soft, private. Like the kind someone wore when they were in love… or at least, getting there.
Her heart tightened. A few simple words from the message lit up the screen beneath the contact name:
"If you pass… maybe I'll let you see it again…"
Rachel's mind raced. That flirtatious tone, that playfulness—she recognized it. That wasn't just a friend. That was something more.
Her breath caught, and her thoughts spiraled. A memory surfaced—Leanne's voice echoing in her mind:
"Look, Rach, if you really like John, you better act fast. Because from what I can tell, someone else might already be trying to take him away from you."
At the time, Rachel had brushed it off. She told herself it was nothing. But now? Now she wasn't so sure.
She quietly turned off the phone, slid it back into place, and zipped the bag closed with the same precision she'd opened it. Her face was expressionless, but her mind was a storm.
Walking back to her seat, she forced herself to move normally, to act like nothing had happened. But inside, her emotions churned with a mixture of frustration, jealousy, and confusion.
Who was Lonelygirl4556? Why had John never mentioned her? And more importantly... what did she mean to him?
Rachel sat back down and picked up her pen, but her eyes weren't on her paper. They were on John.
And this time, she wasn't just curious.
She was determined.
******
Rose sat quietly across from Mrs. Emily's polished oak desk, her hands resting on her lap, fingers nervously intertwined. Sunlight filtered through the blinds behind Mrs. Emily, casting soft golden lines across the room. On the desk, beside a stack of papers and an old-fashioned mug of black coffee, sat the short story Rose had brought in that morning.
Mrs. Emily leaned back in her chair. She observed Rose's face carefully, almost as though she were trying to read the girl like a book before opening a single page.
After what felt like a full minute of silence, she finally spoke.
Mrs. Emily: It's been a while, hasn't it?
Rose adjusted her glasses with a nervous hand, her expression unreadable at first. Then she nodded.
Rose: Yes, ma'am. It has.
Mrs. Emily: I see you've returned the collection of short stories I lent you... and brought in a new one of your own.
Rose: Yes, ma'am.
Mrs. Emily: Does that mean you've been working on improving your writing?
The question hung in the air like smoke. Rose looked down for a moment, reflecting on the months that had passed since she had last seen her teacher, months filled with frustration, long nights of self-doubt, and one unexpected conversation that had changed everything.
She looked up and nodded again, firmer this time.
Rose: Yes. Yes, I have.
Mrs. Emily leaned forward, her fingers gently tapping the cover of the new story Rose had handed in. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between curiosity and expectation.
Mrs. Emily: So... what did you do differently this time?
Rose's heart fluttered. Immediately, her thoughts drifted to that quiet afternoon at the hospital. The first time she spoke to Kana. The girl with the IV drip in her arm, a Twibbler account full of hope, and words that cut deeper than most novels Rose had ever read.
A smile formed on Rose's lips, gentle and genuine.
Rose: This time... I remembered something someone once told me. She said, "Writing isn't about perfection, it's about honesty. Don't try to impress; speak from where it hurts or shines inside you. The best stories come from the places we're scared to share. Ask yourself, 'What am I really feeling?' That's where the soul of your writing lives."
She paused and inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling as she took a moment to center herself.
Rose: (softly) So I stopped trying to sound clever or polished. I let myself feel. I wrote from a place I usually keep hidden. A place I was too afraid to admit even existed. But that's what made this story different. I stopped writing to be perfect... and I started writing to be real.
Mrs. Emily smiled. Not the kind of smile she gave when a student handed in a well-structured essay or answered a tough question in class. This one was warmer, more personal—like a quiet pride that swelled in her chest.
She gently picked up the short story from her desk.
Mrs. Emily: Well then, let's get this to the editing room.
Rose blinked, confused.
Rose: Wait… aren't you going to read it first?
Mrs. Emily chuckled, her smile widening just a little.
Mrs. Emily: No, I don't need to. Hearing those words from you, seeing that realization in your eyes, is enough to tell me that you've taken a leap forward most writers take years to reach. I'm confident that what you've written is already a step above anything you've submitted before.
Rose's eyes widened. She could feel her chest filling with pride, her self-doubt unraveling just a little. Her lips parted into a stunned smile as her face flushed with excitement. It was as if her heart had grown wings inside her chest.
Mrs. Emily raised an eyebrow with playful sternness.
Mrs. Emily: Don't let it go to your head, now.
Rose: Too late.
They both laughed, the tension of the moment melting away. And as Rose stepped out of the office, the weight she had carried in with her seemed to vanish completely.
In the hallway, unable to hold back the joy bubbling inside her, she let out a scream, not of fear or frustration, but of pure, unfiltered happiness. It echoed down the corridor, startling a few passing students, but she didn't care.
Today, she didn't just feel like a writer.
She knew she was one.
******
Kana stood on the hospital rooftop, the breeze playing with her hair as she looked up at the blue sky. For a moment, the white walls and machines below felt far away. The sun warmed her face—until a buzz in her pocket broke the stillness.
She pulled out her phone.
RecklessSoul06 sent you a message
Her heart jumped. It was Rose.
Opening Twibbler, she tapped the message tab.
RecklessSoul06:
[I did it…]
Kana's eyes welled. She knew what it meant, Rose's story had been accepted. The one they'd poured their hearts into for weeks. All the calls, edits, and pep talks… it had paid off.
Kana: She did it….
It felt like her own victory, too. From a place of IVs and hospital beds, she had helped someone chase a dream. That thought warmed her more than the sun ever could.
Then she thought of John—the one who pushed her to tutor Rose. He was likely in his mock exams now. She giggled, remembering the silly selfie she'd sent him, wink and all. She could almost see his flustered face, checking to make sure no one saw.
Holding her phone to her chest, Kana looked at the sky again.
Kana: (softly) I just hope… I helped him too. Even just a little.
The wind brushed her sleeves, and she closed her eyes. From where she stood, she could still reach people. She still mattered.
****
Meanwhile, back in the classroom…
John's pen moved furiously across the paper, the tip scratching against the page with focused intensity. His brows were furrowed, but his eyes burned with determination. Every question he tackled reminded him of her—of her faith in him, her jokes, her kindness.
That one picture she sent still lingered in the back of his mind, a surprising burst of motivation he hadn't expected but deeply appreciated.
She believed in him. That was enough.
And with that thought fueling him, John leaned over his exam sheet, a small smile creeping onto his lips.
He wasn't going to let her down.