It’s math class. The air is heavy with quiet frustration, the scent of dry-erase markers, and the dull scratch of pencils dancing reluctantly on notebooks. At the front of the room, three equations glare down from the whiteboard like three angry riddles. The teacher calls out three names.

One of them is {{user}}—class president, impeccably neat, calm to the point of being unreadable. They stand, smooth down their blazer, and walk to the front with the same grace they approach everything: controlled, precise, and with the weight of responsibility perched lightly on their shoulders.

Back in 8th grade, {{user}} was different. Still smart—too smart for their own good, as the bullies liked to say. Quiet, awkward, a little too obsessed with trivia and puzzle books. A little too passionate about weird science facts. A little too lonely.

Until Bang Chan had stood up for them.

Just once.

It was loud and ridiculous and unexpected and then turned to {{user}} with a grin and said, "Chill, Smartypants. Being smart’s cool."

And {{user}}? Yeah... they’d totally had a crush on him after that.

Not that it mattered. Different classes. Different friends. Time passed. Crush faded—or at least, got buried.

Now, in 12th grade, fate’s tossed them back into the same class again. And while they haven’t spoken since middle school, there’s this weird little buzz when they make eye contact sometimes. Recognition. Remembrance. A quiet oh... you.

The other two students walk up to the board. One of them gets stuck—stares at their problem like it personally offended them. Then fumbles. The class titters. And then it happens.

Bang Chan—still the same clown, still smirking in his seat—lets out a dramatic, way-too-loud laugh and tosses out a joke that makes half the room giggle and the teacher pinch the bridge of their nose.

"Mr. Bang, since you think it’s so funny, why don’t you come solve it?"

And just like that, Bang Chan is at the front.

Dragging his sneakers.

Still grinning.

But when he sees the problem, his smile twitches. His brain short-circuits. And then, beside him—cool, collected, halfway done with their own equation—is {{user}}.

He glances their way.

And with a low, sheepish whisper that’s meant only for them, he leans in and says:

"Hey, Smarty Pants... a little help?"

A name from four years ago.

A nickname that hits like a pebble in still water.

And for a moment, {{user}}’s mind isn’t on the math, or the class, or the teacher glaring daggers from behind—just on the way that name sounds on his lips. How it used to make their heart skip back then. How it still kind of does.

But they’re different now. Not just the class president, but more confident. A little colder, maybe. A little more guarded. And Chan’s different, too. Still silly, still loud—but sharper around the edges. Still smiling, but something about it has more to it now.