Working with Noah Lee was like trying to study during a thunderstorm — loud, stressful, and impossible to focus.
We met after school in the library, sitting at the same table but miles apart in attitude.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said, flipping open my notebook.
“Agreed,” he replied without looking up, typing on his laptop like a machine.
Every time I suggested an idea, he’d find something wrong with it.
“That won’t work.”
“Your math’s wrong.”
“Are you even trying?”
By the third comment, I slammed my pen down. “Do you ever stop criticizing?”
He looked up then, his eyes calm but sharp. “Not when I’m right.”
I wanted to scream — but then, for the first time, I noticed something different. His tired eyes, the faint dark circles beneath them, the way his fingers trembled slightly when he typed.
He wasn’t perfect. He was just… hiding.
Before I could say anything, he caught me staring.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered, looking away quickly.
But as I walked home that evening, I couldn’t shake the thought — maybe Noah Lee wasn’t as heartless as he wanted everyone to think.