The next day, I woke up late as usual. Mom shouted from the kitchen: "Hurry up or you'll be late for the first period!" I didn't reply, just put on my uniform quickly and left without breakfast. The road to school was crowded, and the sun was already hot even though it was still morning.
I reached the high school gate—that big iron one that always felt like it was guarding some secret. I walked into the courtyard and saw students gathering in small groups before classes started. Laughter came from the playground, and someone was arguing about yesterday's football match. I kept my head down and headed straight to class.
I sat in my usual spot at the back near the window. The teacher hadn't arrived yet, so the students were talking loudly. I heard a familiar name: "Ahmed got first place in the regional math competition last week. They said he crushed everyone."
Ahmed.
In second year middle school, he was one of the worst. He used to mock my voice in front of everyone, call me weak, say I couldn't stand up for myself. I stayed silent, stared at the floor, and wished the day would end. Now, two years later, they talk about him like he's a star. Successful. Smart. Liked.
Something twisted inside my chest. It wasn't just anger—it was deeper frustration. He changed. Or maybe he was always smart and I never noticed. And me? People say "He's really smart, but lazy." I know the answers before the teacher explains, I understand fast, but I don't study. I get good grades sometimes by luck or quick thinking, but in big exams I fail because I delay everything. Laziness eats me from the inside, and I do nothing to stop it.
The teacher came in and started the lesson. It was a complicated math problem. I raised my hand without thinking too much and answered quickly and correctly. He said, "Perfect, well done." Some students turned to me with brief admiration, then went back to their conversations. I felt a small moment of pride, then remembered it wasn't enough. Intelligence alone changes nothing without effort.
During break, I went to the courtyard. I saw Ahmed from far away, laughing with his friends. He didn't look at me, and I didn't approach. But in my head, a new scenario started: I walk up to him, say everything I kept inside back then, he apologizes, admits he was wrong, and we become friends. Or maybe I beat him in the final exam, and he looks at me with respect. The scenario keeps going, getting more detailed, but then reality hits—I'm sitting alone on a bench in the shade, staring at the ground, my phone waiting for me to return to my room.
The bell rang, and I went back to class. On the way, I passed the school bulletin board. There was an announcement about an upcoming science competition. I hesitated for a second: "Maybe I join this time?" But the idea vanished quickly. Laziness is stronger, or maybe it's fear of failing again.
I sat in my seat, opened my notebook, but didn't write anything. I just drew random lines and thought: If I'm really smart, why do I stay lazy? And if laziness is part of me, can I ever get rid of it?
(End of Chapter 2)