MBTI high school

Chapter 67 :

Chapter 67 : The Diplomats’ Project

The lights dim. After the Analysts, the room finally settles. You can feel the tone shift — less theory and calculation, more emotion. On stage, the first to step forward is INFJ.

INFJ walks up, holding a book tightly against his chest.
A calm-looking boy, almost shy, but in his eyes there’s a depth that’s quietly unsettling.
He places the book on the table, runs his fingers over it, and says softly:

— “This isn’t a revolutionary project. It’s just… a story.”

A few muffled laughs echo in the room — mostly from ENTP’s side, who leans toward INTJ and whispers:

— “A story? We went from artificial intelligence to… a fairy tale? Talk about landing back on Earth.”

But when INFJ begins to read, the room freezes.

The Joyful Little Boy

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who laughed all the time.
He laughed when he fell, laughed when he lost, even laughed when he was hurt.
Because he said:

“If I laugh, maybe the world will laugh with me.”

Everyone loved him. They said, “What a wonderful child!”
But no one saw the nights when he cried alone, in the shadow of his own kindness.

One day, he saw a wounded bird. He gave it his bread, then his shelter, then his warmth.
And when the bird flew away, he said:

“Goodbye, little friend.”

The next day, people found the boy asleep in the rain.
But on his face, a smile remained.

Because in the sky, a bird was singing for him.
---

INFJ closes the book gently. His voice trembles slightly as he adds:

— “Sometimes, being kind means giving… even when no one’s watching.”

The silence that follows feels sacred. Even ENTP lowers his head, uneasy.
Even ENTJ, in his perfect suit, blinks a few times before muttering:

— “Dust. There’s dust in the air.”

INFJ smiles shyly, then sits down to warm applause, his book clutched to his chest like a secret.

Next comes INFP. Small, tousled brown hair, eyes burning with emotion. She walks onstage holding a crumpled sheet of paper, as if she’d written it in the hallway moments before.

— “I don’t have a video, or a science project, or even a budget. Just words.
Words for… those who don’t fit into boxes.”

She takes a deep breath and begins reading her poem.

To those they look down on,

to those they silence,
to those they hide in the shadows —
you are light.*

---

Finding My Place

They told me: “You dream too much.”
But my dreams are roots —
they keep me standing
when the wind of the world
howls too loud.

I don’t run anymore.
I walk through the shadows,
where truth still breathes.
I pick fragments of solitude
and turn them into constellations.

They call it escape,
I call it peace.

I’m made of air and ash,
of fire and silence,
of everything unseen
that burns all the same.