The Pain That Cannot Be Seen
Leônidas’s eyes shut; the pain tore through his chest. The shelves cracked with the fall, reverberating from the fierce instinct. Regret came instantly, his face gave it away. His fists, still clenched with resentment, loosened. He carried the weight of fury between his fingers, but it wasn’t Leônidas who had deserved the attack.
Phillipe would not forgive him. Leônidas was too frightened to move. In a swift motion, he grabbed Aroldo by the collar and shoved him against one of the bookshelves, making some books fall from the impact. In his eyes, the eruption of a beast. Confused, disoriented, he raised his fist, ready to strike. But before he could, Leônidas called his name.
At the edge of his vision, he vaguely caught sight of him, struggling to get up. The strength in his fingers faded. Indifferent to his own anger, what mattered more was helping his best friend. Leônidas didn’t seem to care about what had happened; on the contrary, he didn’t want Phillipe to take justice into his own hands.
The call weakened his impulse. He let go of Aroldo, who took advantage of the moment to escape and ran off like a coward.
Phillipe realized that this was far more than Leônidas’s appearance tried to hide. Somehow, it seemed this wasn’t the first time someone had treated him that way. The idea of accepting mistreatment without protest was puzzling — was it a flaw, or a sign of spiritual strength?
Phillipe couldn’t tell — unlike Leônidas, who was prepared to move on. He didn’t know Aroldo, but somehow, he felt he understood what was happening inside him. He had never been explosive in his displays of rage, though he considered such excess a sin. Either way, Aroldo hadn’t gone far enough to be unforgivable.
He could feel Aroldo’s pain. He respected it, understood it, without turning that frustration into something permanent. That’s how his heart worked: separated from its essence, anyone could make mistakes. But perhaps the legacy of this moment said more about his place in the world, for though he could forget, he would carry the guilt of believing he hadn’t been good enough.
They gathered their things and left for home without seeing Aroldo in the hallways. He had hidden in one of the bathroom stalls. Dejected, he lowered his head and pressed it against the wall. He didn’t recognize himself. It was strange to think that, for months, a tear had been lingering, never falling. Whether by failure or fate, it wasn’t the sword of sadness that had broken him, but above all, the cruelty of his own actions.
Fallen into isolation, he needed to find a lever to transform himself. They hadn’t been able to see — not his father, not Calebe, nor those in the library.
Eyes burning from tears, exhausted, he stood. The mask he had worn through immature and reckless behavior shattered. He could no longer hide behind irresponsibility. That failure burned like fire. But, as power, a flame could reverse the damage. No one else would do it for him — it would have to come from his own effort.
His rebellion, in trying to draw attention, had only caused harm. The pain he inflicted on Leônidas didn’t ease the anguish he carried, nor did it help him admit his inability to govern himself. Even so, the other boys always shielded him from consequences.
It didn’t seem wise to keep acting in ways that would only draw more criticism. Even if he tried to place blame elsewhere, he remained discredited. Taking responsibility for his own life would have to be a project carried out away from those who might disrupt his balance.
Aroldo had absorbed everything around him, turning into the worst version of himself. He needed to chase away these disturbances to reclaim what truly mattered to him. His identity would not be defined by failure.
He knew the taste of victory — he had been born to win. He remembered when he used to be a hero, when his teammates would lift him in celebration. That part of him was still there. But weakened, he had allowed himself to give up. Now renewed, he wiped away the tears. He needed to apologize — but didn’t know how.