Lu Huai truly felt he couldn’t handle this task.

His instinct screamed to refuse.

But the moment he looked up to tell Ms. Xu he couldn’t do it—countless gazes pinned him like blades.

He lowered his head, swallowed hard, ears flushing hot.

Being under so many stares felt like standing peacefully one second, then walls slamming shut from all sides, crushing him.

Invisible pressure tightened his chest; his heart hammered, cheeks burning.

It was that classic fantasy: a tiny chance to shine, everyone piling complaints on you—then you strike back fiercely and silence them all.

*Finish the deed, walk away without a word, glory hidden deep.*

A thrilling underdog story… Everyone dreamed of it. Lu Huai, a writer himself, had too.

But when real responsibility landed? Helplessness hit first.

He offered no reply, lips parted mid-protest—everyone read it as silent agreement.

Many couldn’t fathom Ms. Xu’s choice.

Lu Huai seemed the quiet, withdrawn type—a background student with no close friends, rarely joining classroom chatter.

No malice lingered; they held no grudges. Basic decency kept bullying thoughts at bay, though faint suspicion remained.

“Lu Huai? … The content?”

“Probably ’cause his essays are decent…”

“Yeah, but it’s chalk writing. How’s his handwriting?”

“No idea. Why should we care?”

Exactly. Most filed it under: *None of my business.*

Who handled the blackboard project or its rating barely registered. At most, a flicker of curiosity: *Can Lu Huai even do this?*

Trivial to them. Life-changing to Lu Huai.

All class, his mind churned.

He’d wait till dismissal.

As students scattered into their own worlds, he seized a quiet gap.

He dreaded the staff room—its silent weight, teachers glancing up with mild confusion while he stood flustered, face burning.

Better to catch Ms. Xu now, tidying her materials. Low attention. Low pressure.

“Ms. Xu.”

He stood beside her. Nearly the same height, yet her calm presence effortlessly commanded space. She nodded, unsurprised.

“Something on your mind?”

“Um… I… can’t handle the blackboard project…”

“Oh, that? You didn’t refuse earlier.”

Matter-of-fact.

Lu Huai knew—he’d been tongue-tied then. Now, scrambling: “I… thought it over. I might mess up the rating…”

Excuses bloomed when retreating. His alone boiled down to one thing: escape.

Slow words, trembling tone—but Ms. Xu understood.

She simply smiled. “Too late now. I announced it. Everyone expects you and Jiang Yao. Changing plans? Awkward.”

Sweat beaded his brow.

“But I might ruin it…”

“How can you ruin what you haven’t tried?” Her smile stayed light, patient—as if she’d always known his hesitant heart.

*Am I really this indecisive?* He often wondered. Others likely saw it too.

“I’ve never done this…”

“Then do it. No one’s born knowing how. Like childbirth—you skip it ’cause you’ve never done it? Heh.”

His face burned hotter. The joke landed oddly, but her boldness… undeniably unique.

“But…”

“No ‘buts.’ When duty lands and won’t shift—accept it. No one blames imperfect effort. Hardly anyone cares. I don’t care about the score. Just do your part. I believe in you.”

She gathered her materials, hand reaching toward his shoulder… or head?

Lu Huai’s wariness flared—*duck*.

Her hand met air.

He froze. *Rude.*

“I…”

Ms. Xu cradled her files, eyes crinkled in a faint, knowing smile.

Slightly… dangerous.

“I’m a little upset.”

*Upset? Why?* Just awkward… a joke?

“Come here.”

He glanced around. No eyes on them.

Hesitantly, he stepped closer.

Before he spoke—her palm settled on his head, ruffling his hair with childlike play.

“There. I’m not upset anymore.”

She released him, smiling as she left.

Lu Huai stood dazed.

*What… was that?*

Treated like a kid. Teachers only ruffled children’s hair for praise.

*“ aced the test—want a special reward?”* …Yeah, no.

That pat felt condescending. Their rapport wasn’t there. And the task—handed off so casually, yet words boxing him in. *Pushing me?*

Paranoid. Maybe. But living meant facing things. Refusal was off the table. Only *how* remained…

And *how* felt impossible.

Jiang Yao approached him later: “What content are you planning? I’ll design around it.”

Lu Huai admitted quietly, “I… haven’t decided yet.”

“Mm, just write anything simple. Quotes, a short story, even copy online—just skip overly romantic stuff, yeah?”

She treated it as trivial. *Her* struggle was layout, colors… “*My* headache,” she sighed.

Human nature: everyone thinks their task is harder.

Talk yielded little.

So Jiang Yao sketched during breaks. Two clean sections bloomed on the back blackboard over two days.

Passersby murmured: “So talented!” “Deserves an award!”

She’d smile modestly. “Just framing the content. The whole matters.”

Then came the questions: “Why’s it still empty?” “Who’s writing?” “Lu Huai?” “*Him?*”

Lu Huai’s stomach tightened. Daily.

Ms. Xu, too—glancing back during class, seeing only blank space.

Jiang Yao checked in: “Almost ready?”

“Soon…”

Her patience frayed. “Hurry… Friday’s judging day.”

He knew.

Countless times alone with chalk—he froze. *What to write?* Fear coiled deep: judgment, rejection, sly smirks over his words, his handwriting.

Ms. Xu never pressured him. Yet Friday loomed.

Time’s weight—or his own mind’s—crashed down.

Dragging it out solved nothing. Jiang Yao wouldn’t write it. No one would help.

Only he could. But…

Thursday afternoon, before dismissal, Jiang Yao found him.

Her calm had snapped.

“Is it done *yet*? It’s so simple! This is *our* task! Just tell me the words—I’ll write them!”

Her voice stayed sweet, but frustration bled through.

Her urgency carved guilt into him.

“I… I’ll write it after school.”

“It’s *Thursday*! Judging is *tomorrow*!”

“I-I will…”

“Fine. I’m done. Handle it. When Ms. Xu asks, I’ll tell the truth.”

She turned away, baffled. *Why is he so hesitant? So slow?*

This wasn’t some stage performance. Even shutting himself away like this had its limits, right?

Huffing in frustration, she turned and left.

Lu Huai thought he still heard voices drifting over.

“What’s wrong, Jiang Yao? Why get so mad at him?”

“Nothing! Ugh, seriously—a grown man dragging his feet, so indecisive over something this small…”

Lu Huai lowered his head, gaze dropping.

An invisible force seemed to bind him, pinning him in place. Even after school ended, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“Lu Huai, you’re not leaving? We’ve finished cleaning…”

The duty student asked kindly.

Avoiding eye contact, Lu Huai sighed softly. “You guys go ahead…”

And just like that, everyone was gone.

The classroom stood empty. The afternoon sun blazed brilliantly, setting half the sky in fiery crimson.

Alone in the silence, Lu Huai finally found the strength to stand.

He walked to the podium, took the chalk box.

Before the blackboard—its border drawn with delicate grace—he stood motionless, staring.

His mind remained blank. Only self-reproach filled him.

Why couldn’t he handle even this…?

It wasn’t a big deal…

Even if the writing was bad… Jiang Yao would scold him, right…?

A low score… They’d say, “It’s the content’s fault. What does it have to do with my border?”

Or maybe they didn’t care at all—they just couldn’t stand a blackboard display judged with *nothing* on it. Like surrendering in battle without even lifting a weapon… a deserter…

Lu Huai hesitated… until twilight deepened, frozen before the board, unmoving.

To others, this was trivial. Why overthink? How could a guy be so wishy-washy? They might not care about content—but with *none*? What was the responsible person even worth? If he couldn’t do this… what use was he?

They’d never grasp the weight this placed on the boy. How many humiliating, unbearable outcomes Lu Huai’s mind had spun from one simple task.

All they’d think: just get it done. Who cares if it’s good? Everyone’s here to study. Trivial. Just do it.

*Thud…*

After long silence, the boy gritted his teeth and slammed a fist against his chest.

Everyone might have their protagonist moment… but Lu Huai never wanted to be one…

Why *must* he be the protagonist?

But… why *couldn’t* he be?

The instant Lu Huai lifted the chalk and made the first mark on the board, the woman who’d stood unseen by the back door finally turned—and walked away slowly.

A long-held smile slowly bloomed on her lips.