Beneath the Bully's Gaze

28

The classroom buzzed with a mixture of excitement and nervous energy as students settled into their seats. It was one of those bright spring days when sunlight poured through the windows, casting warm patterns on the wooden desks. The teacher, Mrs. Harper, stood at the front, her bright smile infectious as she announced the day's assignment.

"Today, we're going to write a poem about love," she declared, her voice melodic and inviting. "It can be about any form of love—romantic, familial, or even platonic. The only requirement is that it must be heartfelt and genuine."

Mira's heart fluttered at the idea of writing poetry. Words often flowed easily for her, a way to express the feelings she struggled to articulate in person. But as she glanced at Ethan, who sat slouched in his chair with an air of disinterest, she felt a pang of worry. His reputation for being a bully had turned her initial excitement into a subtle anxiety.

"Does anyone have any questions?" Mrs. Harper asked, scanning the room. Ethan raised his hand, drawing attention away from Mira.

"Yeah, Mrs. Harper," he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. "What if someone can't write a poem? Like, what if they're just completely hopeless at it?"

Laughter erupted from a few of the students, and Mira could feel heat creeping up her neck. She turned her focus back to her notebook, the blank pages staring back at her, an invitation to explore her feelings.

"Then you can collaborate with someone who knows what they're doing," Mrs. Harper replied, her tone playful. "But remember, poetry is about expressing yourself. It doesn't have to be perfect."

Ethan smirked, clearly unconvinced, and she could sense the storm brewing behind his confident facade. A few minutes later, Mrs. Harper handed out sheets of paper and pencils, and the classroom fell into a focused silence as students began to write.

Mira tried to concentrate, but the sound of shuffling paper and scribbling pens was punctuated by Ethan's occasional sighs of frustration. He wasn't writing at all, she noticed; instead, he sat there, his brow furrowed in thought, clearly struggling.

After a few moments, he turned to her, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. "Mira," he called out, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Help me with this dumb poem. I have no idea what to say, and I refuse to get a zero."

Mira hesitated, feeling the familiar mix of anger and exasperation. "Ethan, why should I help you? You're perfectly capable of writing your own poem."

"Because you're good at this," he replied, his tone shifting slightly. "And I'd rather not fail just because I can't find the right words. Plus, you owe me for doing that project in the library."

She bit her lip, knowing that arguing would only make him more stubborn. "Fine," she said begrudgingly, "but only because I don't want to see you get a zero. What do you want to write about?"

"I don't know," he muttered, leaning closer. "Something about love. Just tell me what to say, and I'll put it in my own words. But don't make it sound like some cheesy romance novel."

Mira rolled her eyes but couldn't help but notice the way his intense blue gaze flickered with frustration and curiosity. "Alright. What's your ideal type of girlfriend?"

Ethan leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look crossing his face. "Why do you want to know? It's not like you're going to fit the description."

"Just tell me," she pressed, determined to push past his taunts. "You might surprise yourself."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, revealing the sculpted lines of his jaw. "Fine. If I had to pick someone... I guess she'd be... well, pretty," he began, his voice surprisingly softer. "Not just pretty, but someone who stands out. You know, someone who lights up the room when she walks in."

Mira felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at his description, an odd mixture of pride and discomfort washing over her. "What else?" she prompted, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Her eyes," he continued, his tone thoughtful as he spoke. "They'd have to be warm, like they hold some sort of kindness. She'd need to be genuine, not just beautiful on the outside but also on the inside. Someone who cares about others and isn't afraid to show it. Kind-hearted, you know?"

Mira's heart raced, the tension in the air thickening as she processed his words. Did he mean her? She wanted to argue that he didn't really think that way about anyone, especially not her. "So, she's supposed to be perfect, then?" she challenged, trying to mask the growing fluster within her.

"No one's perfect," he retorted, but there was a softness in his voice. "But she'd have to be someone who can put up with my crap. Someone who can challenge me but also isn't afraid to laugh at my stupid jokes."

Mira's breath caught in her throat, the way he described his ideal type resonating with her own feelings. "Okay, but how do you expect to find someone like that?" she asked, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart.

"Maybe I don't want to," he replied, his gaze shifting back to the paper. "Maybe it's just easier to stay as I am."

They fell into a brief silence, and Mira watched as he scribbled some notes down, glancing at her every now and then as if gauging her reaction. She leaned in closer, intrigued despite herself. "What about her hair?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

Ethan chuckled, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes. "It would have to be long and flowing. Something that moves with the wind, you know? And if she has a smile that can light up a dark room, that's a bonus."

Mira felt warmth flooding her cheeks, her heart racing. "You really know how to describe your ideal girl," she said, a teasing tone creeping into her voice. "Are you sure you're not talking about someone specific?"

Ethan shot her a sidelong glance, a spark of something unidentifiable flickering in his eyes. "Nah, I'm just brainstorming. But, like I said, I doubt anyone like that would want anything to do with me."

As the minutes ticked by, they continued to share thoughts about love, and with every word, Mira felt the distance between them shrinking. Ethan's arrogance began to fade, revealing a more vulnerable side she had never seen before. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of the boy beneath the facade, a boy searching for answers in a world filled with expectations and uncertainties.

Finally, as the class drew to a close, Ethan glanced at the paper, scribbling down the last few lines. "Thanks for the help," he said, a hint of sincerity in his tone. "You might actually save me from failing this assignment."

Mira smiled softly, feeling a warmth in her chest. "Just don't let it go to your head, okay? You still have to write your own poems from now on."

"Deal," he replied, a genuine grin breaking through his previously cold exterior.

As the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Mira gathered her things, her heart racing with a mix of hope and confusion. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Ethan than met the eye. And perhaps the lines between love and hate weren't as distinct as she had once believed.