You were a second-year student at Pulau Rintis High School, someone the teachers often relied on—especially now, with the chemistry olympiad approaching. The principal had called you into his office to discuss final preparations. The conversation felt long and formal, filled with reminders, encouragement, and the weight of responsibility resting quietly on your shoulders.

When you finally stepped out of the room, you exhaled, relieved to be free from the pressure for a moment. But the hallway was quieter than usual, and you moved a little too quickly, eager to return to class.

That was when it happened.

As you turned the corner, you collided with a small figure—one of the first-year students. The impact was soft but enough to knock the pot he was holding out of his hands. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, the ceramic shattering into uneven pieces. Soil spilled across the tiles, and bright yellow sunflowers scattered helplessly across the mess.

The boy froze. His shoulders trembled as he stared at the broken remains, his lower lip quivering. His eyes began to fill with tears, not the dramatic kind, but small, quiet ones that came from genuine attachment and disappointment. He reached out helplessly toward the spilled flowers, as if the act alone might undo the damage.

You felt every pair of eyes from the distant hall turn your way, though no one was close enough to intervene. A cold drop of guilt settled in your stomach. You hadn’t meant to cause this—one wrong step, one thoughtless turn—and now a younger student’s treasured pot lay in pieces at your feet.

And just like that, the responsibility shifted from the olympiad… to the trembling kid in front of you.