The classroom was almost empty that afternoon. The kind of emptiness that hums quietly, like the silence after rain. I was sitting near the window, staring at the pages of my notebook without really seeing them. My pen rested loosely between my fingers, the ink forming a small dot at the corner of the page — the only sign of life in an otherwise motionless moment.
Outside, the late sunlight spilled across the campus lawn, catching on dust motes floating lazily through the air. I remember thinking that everyone else seemed to be moving forward — laughing, planning, living — while I sat there, stuck. My mind was loud but directionless, filled with thoughts that refused to settle into words.
That was when I heard footsteps approaching.
Professor Nishimura was the kind of man whose presence carried calm authority. He wasn't loud or dramatic — he didn't need to be. His lectures were simple, sometimes quiet, but they stayed with you long after class ended. I'd always admired that about him — the way he could make numbers and logic feel almost poetic.
He stopped beside my desk and looked at me for a long moment. "You're still here," he said softly.
I managed a nod. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of curiosity in his eyes. "About what?"
I hesitated. "Everything, I guess."
He didn't press. Instead, he glanced down at my notebook and then at me. And then, without warning, he asked, "What's your favourite number?"
I blinked. "My… favourite number?"
He smiled faintly. "Yes. Everyone has one. What's yours?"
"Seven," I said after a moment, unsure why. Maybe because it felt like a safe number — lucky, balanced, complete.
He nodded slowly, as if he'd expected that answer. "Multiply it by zero."
I frowned a little, caught off guard. "It'll be zero."
"Good," he said simply. "Now, my favourite number is 1979. Multiply that by zero too."
"It's still zero, sir," I replied.
He gave a small smile — not mocking, not amused, just soft. "Why is it always zero?"
I thought it was a trick question. "Because anything multiplied by zero is zero," I said.
He nodded again, this time looking me straight in the eyes. "Exactly, kid. Anything multiplied by zero is zero. One-sided effort in anything… no matter how much you give, it'll always end up as zero."
And then he gently patted my shoulder and walked away, leaving me sitting there in stunned silence.
It was strange — how such a simple equation could suddenly feel so heavy. I'd spent the past few weeks drowning in a kind of quiet sadness I couldn't name. It wasn't one big thing — not a heartbreak or a failure. It was the slow erosion of energy, the feeling of giving and giving and never being met halfway.
That semester had been rough. I was juggling a part-time job, classes, and a project that no one seemed to care about except me. I was the one reminding the group about deadlines, rewriting sections that others forgot, staying up late to fix the mess they left behind. When the grades came out, my name was just another line on the report — no recognition, no acknowledgment.
And outside of academics, life wasn't much different. Friends who only called when they needed something. Messages that went unanswered. Promises that were half-kept. I told myself it didn't matter — that effort itself was meaningful. But slowly, something inside me had started to fade.
That day in the classroom, Professor Nishimura's words cracked something open.
One-sided effort always ends in zero.
It was the truth I'd been living without understanding.
Over the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I started noticing how much of my life had been built on uneven equations. I'd been multiplying by zero without realizing it — giving time, trust, and emotion to people and situations that had nothing to give back.
It wasn't bitterness that grew in me then. It was realization. The quiet understanding that effort alone doesn't build anything unless it's met halfway.
One evening, I saw Professor Nishimura again, standing by the faculty building. I almost walked past him, but something in me needed to say thank you — even if he had no idea how deeply his words had hit.
"Sir," I said, hesitating. "About that zero thing you told me… I've been thinking about it a lot."
He looked up from the papers in his hand, smiling a little. "I figured you might."
"I think I understand it now," I said. "It's about balance, right? About not giving everything to something that gives nothing back."
He nodded, slipping the papers under his arm. "That's one way to put it. Most people learn it too late. They pour themselves into things hoping effort alone will make it work — a friendship, a dream, a person. But when the other side is zero, the product will always be zero, no matter how large your number is."
His voice softened. "It's not about giving less. It's about choosing wisely where you give."
I stood there quietly, his words sinking deeper than I expected.
"Do you ever stop giving, though?" I asked. "Because sometimes it feels like that's all I know how to do."
He smiled — that same patient, knowing smile. "No. You don't stop giving. You just stop multiplying by zero."
After that day, something shifted in me. I started to pay attention — not just to people, but to energy, to reciprocity. I learned that effort isn't noble when it's unnoticed; it's exhausting. That love isn't self-sacrifice; it's balance.
It took time, of course. I still found myself slipping back — offering more than I should, hoping someone would finally understand the language of my silence. But each time I caught myself, I remembered his equation.
When I stayed up late worrying about someone who hadn't texted me back in weeks — zero.
When I volunteered for another project no one cared about — zero.
When I apologized for things I didn't even do, just to keep the peace — zero.
Slowly, painfully, I began to protect my number — the energy, kindness, and time that made me who I was. And in doing so, I found people who matched it, even in small ways. People who didn't just take, but gave back — conversation for conversation, kindness for kindness, presence for presence.
That was when I realized: the lesson wasn't about giving less; it was about giving where it mattered.
A year later, at graduation, I saw Professor Nishimura again. He was talking to a group of students, smiling that same calm smile. When he noticed me, he nodded slightly — an acknowledgment that said more than words could.
I walked up to him. "You know, sir," I said, "I stopped multiplying by zero."
He laughed softly. "Good. What did you find instead?"
"Ones," I said. "Sometimes twos. Sometimes more. But never zero again."
He smiled, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight after a long winter. "That's all I hoped you'd learn."
As he turned away, I realized something else. The equation wasn't just about effort or relationships — it was about self-worth. About knowing that I, too, was a number that mattered.
And that day, standing beneath the bright sky of a new beginning, I finally understood what he'd meant all along.
Some lessons aren't written in textbooks. Some are whispered in the quiet moments when you've almost given up — when someone reminds you that even math, in all its certainty, can teach you about the heart.
Because in the end, life isn't about how much you give.
It's about who's willing to multiply with you — and not leave you at zero.