"If you put limits on anything,
you put limits on everything that is you."
— Bruce Lee
---
"And today's topic is drama… again."
Literature.
The class hushed under the calming voice of Miss Bea.
Her thick English accent was almost soothing and strangely admirable.
Dean's eyes drifted from the target board to his book.
He could hear the faint whisper of his pen brushing the paper.
"So, before we continue… who can give a description of our previous topic?"
No hand rose.
"No one?"
Her last word stretched sharply.
Dean's eyes darted left, right, then—unluckily—met hers.
"Yes, the new boy."
Dean gulped. His hand slipped, and he awkwardly adjusted his collar before blinking too fast.
"B–Balthazar Vailhage."
Snickers burst around the room. Miss Bea raised an eyebrow.
"Anne Civerdi."
"Ferdinand Brunette."
"Moultan."
"Soediro Sato."
The snickers grew louder. Dean pinched the side of his book.
"H–Ha… Hannah Montana."
The class exploded in laughter. Dean's face darkened in confused embarrassment.
"That's enough."
Quiet. Cold. Distant.
But effective—everyone fell silent.
Miss Bea shot Dean a sharp glare before she looked away.
"Yes," she said, picking a student from the second row.
That student rose confidently and gave a completely different, correct answer.
Dean flushed hot, sinking into his seat. Uncertain. Unsettled.
He glanced from his book… to the class… and then—
Her.
Those striking eyes.
Navy green. Watching him.
She smiled.
He frowned.
The bell rang suddenly, and the room erupted into movement and whispers.
Dean packed up quickly, eager to escape.
But he didn't get the chance.
A leg shot out.
He tripped, crashing onto the limon floor as his books scattered.
Students paused only to glare, then turned away like it was some boring show.
Dean looked up sharply at the boy who wiped his shoe with a napkin—
then tossed it in front his face before walking off with his friends.
Dean cursed under his breath and gathered his books one by one.
A fair hand touched the same book he reached for.
He snatched it back instinctively—and froze.
Her.
The girl from class.
"Hi," she said softly.
Dean blinked.
She was really fair—skin glowing, eyes sharp but oddly gentle. Something about her expression looked forced.
Her fingers move back slightly when Dean reached.
"Thanks," he muttered. Not sure if she really needed it .
He grabbed his book and the crumpled napkin, walking away.
He didn't ignore the stares following them—or how the girl glared at his back and then smiled.
He just wants to get away.
---
"An' this here… twenty-two cents an' a mess o' trashy scraps."Dean groaned dramatically, sounding like an exhausted married man.
His friend shot him a glare.
"Bruh… what?! This all we could scrounge up for the mid-year project."
Dean let out a cry. His friend glared harder.
"What you thank was gon' happen?",", "If every bit o' money we had done went on gummy-gums, arcane drinks, an' wrestlin' magazines…"
"I don't know—I was expecting something better.". Dean snaps
"Like what you mean?"
"Two hundred bucks."
"From what now? Like yo' allowance is a hunnid bucks or somethin'?!"
His friend hissed.
From the start of the year, the "chan" idea had been his's.
All the money inside it was his's too.
Dean didn't have a single dime in there.
And got nerve to complain.
Dean tossed the napkin. His friend caught it and rubbed the fabric between his fingers.
"Where'd you git this?"
"A rich snoop."
"You think we can flip it?"
But Dean's eyes were glued to the TV showing a wrestler's entrance.
Why did fighting make him feel alive?
The sweat, the strikes, the roar—
it made his blood boil with excitement.
His eyes watch their captivating movement and he's lost.
"Bruh… ye listenin'?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Mark rolled his eyes, then grinned.
"I was thinkin'… you at that rich school, maybe you can snag a lil' 'water' from 'em."
Dean tore his eyes from the screen. Face harden.
"I'm not stealing." Mark scoff.
"You don't gotta say it like that. But if you don't do somethin', you gon' keep goin' to school broke, an' maybe your mama can finally hush."
"Don't talk about my mother like that." Dean snap.
"I'm just sayin'—where you gon' get three hunnit thousand dollars, huh?"
"I'll get a job."
"And when will that help?"
" The position was taken! "
"Really? The post is still there."
"They forgot."
"Bro, no people hair black negga—"
"Nero."
"I'm say—you're a Nero."
Dean groaned.
"I don't say things bruh," Mark continued. "But even if you get work, you really think you gon' pull 300k?"
Silence.
Mark scoffed and stood up like he was expecting it. The slience, the denial, the hesitation.
"Boss till needs ya', Broke."
Dean turned sharply and his body tense.
Mark ignored him.
He walked away, leaving Dean trembling with frustration.
" He waits you, Dean."
" I-i."
" Forget ;'bout it." Mark mutter shaking his head.
"You gon' eat or naw?" Mark called from the next room.
Dean snapped back to reality. He had too. His eyes fixed at the wall.
His fists clenched.
He forced a smile.
"I'll find a good job," he muttered—and walked off with a forced cheerful grin.
" Don't you think you gonna eat aLL."
" Fuck you. "
" I don't fuck with babies. "
And Dean could swore he saw the face of the girl from school.
And he groan.
---