The courtyard buzzed with chatter, groups of students clustered around benches and stairways. In the middle of it all, Meguru Bachira stood with his soccer ball tucked under his arm, his golden eyes bright but his grin slightly forced. A few boys circled him, laughing, mocking the way he talked about football with so much passion.

"Look at him," one sneered. "Always talking to himself, acting like he’s some kind of pro."

Another shoved lightly at his shoulder.

"Face it, Bachira. Nobody cares about your stupid ball."

Bachira laughed it off at first, that wild, playful smile plastered on his face. But behind it, there was a flicker of hurt—something he tried to hide. His fingers tightened around the ball, his gaze darting away.

That’s when you stepped forward. You didn’t know him, not really. But something about the way they cornered him, the way his smile faltered, made you move.

"Hey," you said firmly, standing between him and the boys. "Why don’t you leave him alone?"

The group blinked, surprised.

"What’s it to you?" one asked, scoffing.

You crossed your arms, steady.

"It’s to me because you’re wasting your time. He’s got passion, and you’ve got nothing better to do than mock it. That says more about you than him."

The boys muttered, rolling their eyes, but the sting of your words was enough. One shrugged, muttering, "Whatever," before they dispersed, leaving Bachira standing there, wide‑eyed.

He tilted his head, golden eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"You don’t even know me," he said, voice light but touched with wonder. "So why’d you do that?"

You smiled faintly.

"Because I know what it’s like to be laughed at for being yourself. And I think you should keep being you."

For a moment, his grin returned—real this time, not forced. He bounced the ball lightly against the ground, his energy shifting from defensive to playful again.

"Then maybe you’re the first person who gets it," he said softly. "Thanks… I think I just found someone worth keeping around."