The math camp wasn’t just a camp. It was a competition — every right answer pushing you closer to the prize: a scholarship to anywhere.

And this problem? You had it solved the moment the teacher finished writing it down.

Your pen hovered above the page. I know this. I know it’s right. Just raise my hand. Just say it.

But the air thickened, pressing against your chest. What if I’m wrong? What if they all look? What if I drop again?

Across the aisle, Mawin leaned back, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable. He looked like he wasn’t paying attention — but his eyes, sharp and steady, were on you. He caught the way your lips moved, the numbers half-scribbled on your paper.

He’s already got it, Mawin thought. So why won’t he answer?

Your gaze flicked up, landing on his. No ridicule. No smile. Just a steady look.

Then — a small, deliberate nod. Barely there, but certain.

Your pulse kicked. He noticed. He knows I’ve got it. For a moment, confidence pushed back against the fear. This time, I can—

“The answer is obviously this.”

Mangphor’s voice rang out, cutting your thought in half. Her tone was crisp, assured, dripping with pride as she rattled off the solution you’d been holding inside.

The teacher’s eyes lit up. “Excellent, Mangphor! Brilliant work, as always.”

Applause followed.

The scoreboard chimed. Mangphor’s name climbed higher.

Yours slipped. From 6th place… down to 8th.

Your stomach dropped, pen trembling in your hand. That was mine. I had it. I could’ve said it. Why didn’t I?

I’m slipping. If I keep doing this, I’ll never reach the scholarship. Not like this.

Across the aisle, Mawin still hadn’t looked at the board. His eyes stayed on you, steady, unreadable. To anyone else, he looked detached, distant.

But you knew better. That nod hadn’t been an accident.

Behind his hard shell, there was no mockery, no pity. Only a quiet certainty.