While most students across the city were still enjoying the last stretch of summer, Westerdam's new sixth graders had already started school. No soft landings, no easing in—just textbooks, timetables, and the silent weight of reputation.
Minh had expected a little more ceremony. A "Welcome to Middle School" sign. Maybe some balloons. Instead, he got Room K-201, the school's most weathered classroom, with yellow walls that flaked if you leaned against them for too long and ceiling fans that groaned more than they spun.
Still, he sat up straight.
Each subject brought in a different teacher, each with their own strange rhythms. The math teacher never smiled. The English teacher smiled too much. The biology teacher kept saying "you'll need this for high school," even though that was still years away. Minh spent half the day just trying to remember their names.
By mid-morning, the homeroom teacher clapped her hands sharply and announced it was time to vote for class president. The room shifted. A few students whispered. One boy near the front stretched like he'd just been called to run a race he was sure he'd win.
That was Hoàng.
He walked to the front with a casual confidence, flicking imaginary dust off his sleeve before turning to face the class. "I've been class president since first grade," he began, smiling. "And I know how to make things run smoothly. If you want order, discipline, and someone who'll represent us well—choose me."
A few students nodded. Minh noticed how they already looked at him like a leader.
Next came Long—quieter, more reserved. He wore round glasses and had a thick folder of papers that he held like armor. "I've represented our district in science competitions," he said softly, "and I want to make sure everyone has a voice, not just the loudest ones."
The class listened politely, but the energy dipped.
Finally, there was Nam. He walked up stiffly, hands behind his back. His introduction was short. "I ranked first in the entrance exam," he said, then paused, unsure if he should say more. "I'll take this seriously."
That was all.
The vote wasn't even close. Hoàng won easily.
Minh clapped along with the others, but something about Nam lingered in his mind. He'd looked out of place up there—like someone meant for something else. Minh didn't know it then, but years later, Nam would go on to win a gold medal at the International Olympiad in Informatics. That day, though, he was just a kid who lost an election.
Lunch came with noisy trays and overcooked chicken. Minh sat with a few boys whose names he'd already forgotten. Still, the jokes flowed easily, and by the time someone pulled out a smartwatch to start typing one-liner messages across the table, Minh had laughed more in twenty minutes than he had all morning.
They typed quickly and read each other's screens under the table like secret agents.
"Lit next. I'm aiming for 7.""6.5 if she's in a good mood.""You?"
Minh tapped back:"8 if lucky. 9 if miracle."
It felt nice, the quiet rhythm of inclusion.
Literature went better than expected. Minh scored an 8, and even though Ms. Lan Anh had written "vague conclusion" in red pen next to his final paragraph, she'd also underlined a sentence and added, "Nice voice." That one comment stayed with him the rest of the day.
By the time P.E. arrived, the sun was leaning low across the soccer field, painting everything with a gold haze. We divided the class into two teams ourselves—and for some reason, Minh was made captain of one.
"Choose two teammates," the other boys barked.
Minh blinked. He didn't know anyone. Not well enough to judge who was fast or who could pass. So he pointed at the two boys who looked the least intimidating. Maybe they'd be better than they looked.
They weren't.
The game started fast, and Minh realized within two minutes that the team was hopelessly outmatched. His defenders kicked the ball in the wrong direction. One player tripped over his own shoelaces. By halftime, they were down 0–3.
At one point, Minh made a decent run toward the opposing side—his first real break—but no one was there to receive the pass. He looked over and saw his teammates walking.
They lost 0–5.
No one said anything after the whistle. The winning team cheered and scattered like birds. Minh sat down on the edge of the field, breathing heavily.
The grass smelled damp and earthy. The wind had picked up a little. Somewhere nearby, someone else was laughing—but it wasn't anyone on his team.
He looked around the field and realized something that hadn't hit him all day.
He didn't know anyone here.
Not really.
And no one really knew him.
The hallway between him and the rest of the school wasn't just long.It was crowded. And he hadn't found his way through it yet.