The reason I refuse to relive Class 3C has a name.
Josh.
If Jason taught me restraint and Lawrence taught me consequence, Josh taught me something colder.
How to erase someone.
Completely.
It did not begin with hostility.
It began with warmth.
Josh was the first person in that new school who made me feel chosen.
We sat together during recess. Walked home along the same stretch of road. Shared jokes that felt exclusive.
He introduced me to the cyber cafe two streets away from school.
“One hour is one dollar,” he said, pushing open the tinted glass door.
The air inside carried a faint trace of cigarette smoke embedded into old curtains and plastic chairs. Rows of computers glowed in dim lighting. The hum of cooling fans mixed with rapid keyboard tapping.
“This is where everyone comes,” he said casually. “Even the top students.”
That last sentence was not entirely true.
But I believed him.
In that space, reputation dissolved. You were only as strong as your character build.
He was different there.
Relaxed.
Encouraging.
“You’re good at this,” he would say while watching me grind monsters efficiently. “You calculate fast.”
Praise from him mattered.
At school, he was careful.
When we were alone, he treated me like a best friend.
When his gang appeared, something shifted.
His shoulders squared.
His tone changed.
One afternoon, as we stood near the classroom windows, one of the boys nudged him.
“Your scholar friend is here.”
Josh looked at me, then at them.
“Stand properly,” he said loudly. “Why are you always bending like that?”
The boys laughed.
I straightened awkwardly.
I had grown taller quickly that year, trying to compensate for my shorter primary school phase. My body had not caught up with itself. I hunched unconsciously, unsure how to carry new height.
“Look at him,” another boy said. “Like a question mark.”
Josh grinned.
He did not defend me.
He joined them.
“Maybe he’s thinking too much. Brain too heavy.”
Laughter again.
Later, when we were alone, he said quietly, “Don’t take it seriously. They joke like that.”
“You could tell them to stop.”
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“If I defend you, they’ll target you more.”
It sounded logical.
I accepted it.
Because losing him felt worse than enduring humiliation.
This pattern repeated.
Private warmth.
Public mockery.
I forgave him every time.
Then I made a mistake.
I introduced him to the online game I was obsessed with.
“There’s a rare item,” I explained one evening. “The General Necklace. It only drops from the Lucky General Box. If we get it, we can sell it for several times what we spend.”
He leaned closer to the screen.
“What’s the chance?”
“Low. But if we open enough boxes, probability works in our favor.”
That was how I framed it.
Probability.
Not gambling.
His gang pooled money together. We purchased multiple boxes.
One after another, digital animations flashed across the screen.
Common items.
Trash.
Repeated.
No necklace.
The room grew quieter.
“We’ll get it,” I insisted. “Just a few more.”
We did not get it.
When the last box opened and revealed another worthless item, silence lingered.
Common sense would have labeled it shared risk.
A gamble.
A failed attempt.
Instead, Josh turned to me.
“You’re going to return the money.”
I blinked.
“It was chance.”
“You convinced us.”
“It was a risk we agreed on.”
He shrugged.
“You return it.”
He did not threaten me.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply stated it as if it were already decided.
Over the next weeks, he reminded me casually.
Not aggressively.
Just enough.
When his gang was present, he would say, “How’s our investment going?”
Laughter followed.
When alone, he would say, “You’ll settle it, right?”
The ambiguity was worse than aggression.
Eventually, I saved enough money and repaid everyone.
I did not believe it was just.
But he controlled the social atmosphere of the class.
Sometimes survival overrides fairness.
Then came the tuition center.
It was famous.
Competitive.
He persuaded me to enroll.
“It’ll boost your grades,” he said. “We both need it.”
On the first day, they handed me an access card and a plastic blue suitcase filled with revision materials.
Structured notes.
Practice papers.
It felt official.
Productive.
The next school day, in front of his gang, he tapped the suitcase.
“Look at him,” he said loudly. “Carrying treasure chest now.”
One of the boys asked, “Does it contain answers to life?”
Josh replied, “No. Just his hope.”
Laughter.
Something shifted inside me that day.
Not anger.
Not embarrassment.
Resolve.
After class, he approached me privately.
“Don’t be sensitive. They’re joking.”
I looked at him carefully.
“You joke differently when they’re here.”
He hesitated.
“I have to blend in.”
That sentence clarified everything.
Blend in.
I was currency.
Entertainment bought him acceptance.
Weeks later, I hit a low point academically.
Addiction caught up with me.
Six subjects.
F.
In a row.
For someone whose only identity was academic competence, it was devastating.
When results were returned, my hands felt heavy holding the paper.
Before I could process it, Josh lifted his hand in front of the class.
Five fingers on one hand.
One on the other.
Six.
He grinned.
“Legend,” he said loudly. “Six.”
The gang laughed immediately.
He repeated the hand sign whenever teachers were not looking.
Six.
Six.
Six.
It echoed in my head louder than the laughter.
That was the line.
Academics were the only thing I had.
He knew that.
He weaponized it.
That evening was the second tuition session.
We sat side by side.
He sensed something was different.
During break, he handed me a mint sweet.
“Take it,” he said lightly. “You’re overthinking.”
I did not move.
“Come on. Don’t be dramatic.”
Silence.
He lowered his voice.
“Sorry about earlier.”
The word sounded practiced.
Recycled.
He had said it before.
After posture jokes.
After money reminders.
After public teasing.
Sorry without change is performance.
Class resumed.
When it ended, I packed my books.
He walked beside me.
“You’re not mad, right?”
I did not answer.
“Say something.”
I did not.
That was the last time I attended that tuition center.
I never returned the access card.
Never collected the remaining materials.
I disappeared from that space completely.
In school, he attempted small gestures.
“Want to go cyber cafe?”
No response.
“Still grinding that game?”
Silence.
He tried humor.
He tried casual conversation.
He tried apologizing again.
Nothing.
The more he attempted, the quieter I became.
Eventually, he stopped.
We coexisted in the same classroom until Year 3 ended.
No eye contact.
No conversation.
Not hostility.
Absence.
Years later, on social media, he remained connected.
He liked my posts.
Congratulated achievements.
Sent occasional messages.
“Proud of you, what's the secret of passing all Professional Papers?”
“How are you doing now?”
I never engaged beyond minimal politeness.
He maintained the thread.
I never allowed it to tighten.
From him, I learned something permanent.
There are relationships that drain gradually.
And there are moments when a line is crossed so clearly that forgiveness becomes self betrayal.
He crossed it with six fingers raised in mockery.
That day, I learned how to close a door without announcing it.
No confrontation.
No drama.
Just removal.
It is a skill I still carry at thirty one.
People assume I am patient.
I am.
Until the line is crossed.
Then I disappear.
Class 3C was not frightening because of poor academics.
It was the birthplace of that cold decision, I would continue to do the same thing to those who hurt me in the future.
And in this new timeline, I intend to never step into that classroom at all.
