The result sheet was pinned to the notice board with careless precision.
Reeve stood in front of it longer than most, eyes scanning the rows slowly, as if he expected the numbers to rearrange themselves out of pity.
They didn't.
His marks sat exactly where they always did—below average. Not failing. Not impressive. Just… forgettable.
A few students groaned loudly. Others laughed in relief. Someone cursed the examiner. Someone celebrated.
Reeve said nothing.
A classmate beside him glanced over. "Hey… what'd you get?"
Reeve hesitated, then shrugged. "Not great. I think I messed up."
The classmate nodded, already losing interest. "Yeah, same. System's trash anyway."
Reeve didn't reply.
The system works perfectly, he thought. Just not for everyone.
In class, the professor returned answer sheets with mechanical indifference. When Reeve's paper landed on his desk, the red ink felt heavier than it should have.
He stared at the mistakes.
Most weren't from lack of understanding.
They were from hesitation.
From second-guessing.
From assuming he was wrong before finishing a thought.
The professor paused near his desk. "You should speak up more, Reeve. You look like you know something, but you never say it."
Reeve looked up, startled. "Sorry, sir. I… get confused easily."
The professor sighed, already moving on. "Confidence matters."
Reeve lowered his gaze.
Confidence was expensive.
During the break, students gathered in clusters, complaining loudly about marks, blaming teachers, blaming schedules, blaming politics.
Reeve sat at the edge of a bench, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
Someone approached him. "Hey Reeve, want to join us? We're talking about the results."
Reeve looked up too late, words colliding in his throat. "Uh… I—"
The silence stretched awkwardly.
The student smiled politely. "It's fine. Maybe later."
Reeve nodded. "Yeah. Later."
They didn't come back.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing once he was alone again.
Talking was exhausting.
Every conversation felt like walking through fog—misunderstandings everywhere, intentions distorted, words twisted the moment they left his mouth.
Why explain yourself when people only heard what they wanted?
At lunch, Reeve ate quietly. Around him, voices overlapped—complaints about exams, jokes about professors, arguments about politics.
Someone slammed a tray down nearby. "The whole country's rotten," a student said loudly. "If you don't cheat, you lose."
Another replied, "That's just how it is."
Reeve listened without reacting.
Then why pretend otherwise?
In the afternoon lecture, Reeve tried to focus, but the numbers on the board blurred together. Not because they were difficult—but because they felt meaningless.
Pass. Fail. Rank. Label.
All designed to make people chase approval instead of understanding.
The professor asked a question.
Silence followed.
Reeve knew the answer. He always did.
His hand twitched—but didn't rise.
Another student answered incorrectly. The professor corrected them.
Reeve stayed quiet.
Being right didn't change anything.
After college, Reeve skipped the metro and walked home. The longer path gave him space to think without pretending.
The streets told a clearer story than classrooms ever did.
A politician's face smiled from a torn poster, half peeled away to reveal an older slogan underneath. A police officer ignored a street vendor arguing with a customer—until money discreetly changed hands.
No speeches. No debates.
Just transactions.
At his part-time job, things weren't better. A coworker blamed Reeve for a small mistake he hadn't made. The manager didn't investigate—just nodded and told Reeve to be more careful.
Reeve apologized.
It was easier.
Words here didn't seek truth. They sought convenience.
When a customer complained aggressively, Reeve didn't argue. He nodded, refunded partially, and ended the interaction quickly.
His coworker whispered later, "You should've fought back."
Reeve shook his head. "It's pointless."
"What is?"
"Talking."
His coworker laughed, thinking it was a joke.
It wasn't.
On the walk home, Reeve replayed every conversation he'd had that day. Each one felt inefficient. Misaligned. Draining.
People didn't listen—they waited to speak.
They didn't understand—they judged.
They didn't communicate—they performed.
At home, Reeve dropped his bag and sat on the floor, back against the bed. His room felt like the only place where silence didn't demand anything from him.
He opened a manga chapter absently, flipped a few pages, then closed it.
Too many words. Too many emotions exaggerated beyond meaning.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Talking with people is useless.
Not because they're evil.
Because most of them don't want truth—they want comfort.
And comfort hates honesty.
Reeve turned his phone off.
In the quiet, a strange calm settled in. No expectations. No misunderstandings. No explanations required.
Just him.
Just thought.
As sleep approached, a final idea drifted through his mind—cold, detached, almost relieving:
If words can't change anything… then only outcomes matter.
The city outside continued breathing—uncaring, relentless.
And somewhere deep inside Reeve, something agreed.