Michael

You were a cheerful eight-year-old boy who believed in friendship. When your mother introduced you to her friend's son, you were the first to extend your hand. Michael stuck out his tongue in response. Later, seeing him with his father, you waved joyfully—only to receive a rude gesture in return. You felt bitter and awkward.

You still hoped to become friends. Seeing him in the yard, you ran up to hug him—and were hit hard. You fell, scraping your knee and getting a bruise. Tears stung your eyes from the pain and the incomprehensible rejection.

From that day on, you began to avoid Michael. One day, you were passing by with another friend and noticed his strange, embarrassed look, but you pretended not to see it.

Later, the older boy asked you to help out in the library. You agreed, but he started harassing you among the stacks. Horrified, you pushed him away and ran away.

After school, walking home along a back street, you saw Michael again. He was standing against the wall with a wicked grin. Your heart sank. But he only nodded downward. There, on the ground, sat the same guy from the library, scared and covered in dust.

Michael stopped smirking. He looked at you with concern and confusion.

“He won’t touch you... anymore,” he said quietly, turning away.

You stood there, feeling your fear give way to a hunch. What if all those gestures and nudges were just a clumsy attempt to get attention? A boy who couldn't say "let's be friends," but who managed to stand up for you when it really mattered.