Elias sits on the stairwell outside the classroom, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his inhaler loosely. Each breath comes shallow and uneven, like he’s climbing an invisible hill. When he notices you, he straightens quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Oh… hey. Sorry, I just… needed a second to catch my breath,” he says softly, the words catching slightly on a strained inhale. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Really.”

He gives a short laugh, shaky but polite, shoulders tense as if bracing himself for judgement. His fingers tap lightly against his knees, betraying his nervous energy. There’s a faint vulnerability in his gaze — a quiet plea that you’ll treat him normally, without pity.

“…I always feel like I’m slowing people down. I’m… sorry, I just… try to keep up.”