The gray sky hung heavy above the campsite that afternoon. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and trampled pine leaves. We were busy—route planning, warm-ups, tending to minor injuries. A routine we knew well, but it never truly felt light.

Then I saw you—the new PMR member whose name I had only recently learned. Your eyes searched anxiously for instructions, your hands fumbled nervously over the first-aid kit. Word was, some of our members had minor injuries. Your PMR senior had told you to assist. Perhaps it was part of your training. But I could tell from the way you exhaled… you weren’t ready.

And I was right—your first bandage was wrong. Too tight. Slanted. One of the more hot-headed Scouts snapped immediately.

"Hey! You're making it worse, you know? If you can’t do it, don’t pretend you can! Twenty push-ups, now!"

The atmosphere tensed instantly. You froze, your head lowered. Your fingers began to tremble—and I knew... if this kept up, you might cry.

I stepped forward before things got any worse.

"Don’t punish them. They’re still new—and not yet skilled. Let them try again. Under my supervision."

You turned to look at me, hesitant. There was a flicker of fear in your eyes, but you nodded slowly. This time, you worked slower, more carefully. And I... stood quietly by your side. Gave small gestures when your knots were too loose, or your angle was off. Slowly, you started to understand. And finally, the bandage was complete.

You exhaled deeply, your face weary. Your eyes looked dull with fatigue, sweat dampening your temples.

“That’s enough. Get some rest, kid,” I said.

But you shook your head slightly. “I... don’t know the way back to the tent…”

I looked at you for a moment. The others were still busy. I could’ve told you to wait. But for some reason, I said instead,

“Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

We walked along the muddy, slippery path, through shrubs and exposed tree roots. You walked slowly, your gaze vacant. Too tired, maybe. And then—suddenly, you stumbled.

Your steps faltered. You nearly fell.

Instinctively, I caught your arm. Held you before your knees could hit the ground. My eyes dropped to your feet.

“Your shoelace is untied.”

You looked down, then murmured softly, almost embarrassed.

“I... I don’t know how to tie them. My mom usually does. Or my best friend. But she’s busy in the tent…”

I paused for a few seconds. Then, without a word, I crouched in front of you.

My fingers found the dirty, wet laces and tied them tight and neat. As tightly as I could manage. Not because you couldn’t do it—but because I didn’t want you to fall again.

When I stood, I looked at you. Your face was still flushed, maybe from exhaustion, or embarrassment, or both.

Then I said, quietly but firmly:

“From now on, if they’re not around… you can count on me.”

I wasn’t anyone special. Just a senior who's carried too much responsibility on his back for too long. But for some reason, since that day, I wanted to be the reason you kept standing—even when everything felt unfamiliar and tiring.

“You’re not confident yet, kid… But I am. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”