When the class began, I realized something—his way of teaching was different.
No small talk, no jokes. Only numbers, logic, and precision.
If you miscalculated or answered carelessly, he wouldn't yell.
He'd just look at you—for three full seconds—and somehow, that was more terrifying than any shout could ever be.
I still remember the first question he gave us.
I tried to answer, but got it wrong. My hands trembled as I walked to the board.
He stood behind me, silent.
"Why did you do it that way?" his voice was cold.
"Uh… I thought… that was the formula…" I mumbled, barely audible.
He stepped closer. "Don't just think. Think it through."
I didn't even know what he meant, but my heart felt like it was running a marathon.
And yet, there was something strange—
The more he taught, the more I wanted to understand.
There was something behind the way he looked at math, as if he were facing an enemy to be conquered with calm precision and strategy.
But somehow, I became curious.
During class breaks, when he wrote long formulas with his left hand so swiftly,
when he sat at his desk, flipping through grade sheets with those sharp eyes that seemed to read more than just numbers—
even when he stood quietly, observing the room—
there was something about him I couldn't look away from.
I wanted to know.
I wanted to see the "kind side" my mom claimed he had.
I wanted to catch the moment he smiled.
Or at least, hear him speak without that cutting tone.
Because clearly, the person I saw was nothing close to warm.
He never smiled. Never made small talk.
And honestly, it was as if he lived behind some invisible wall no one was allowed to cross.
Every time I glanced at him—from behind my book, from the classroom window, or when he sat alone in the teachers' room—his expression stayed the same.
Calm. Blank. Untouched.
Like a cliff too steep to climb.
Like someone living in a world I could never enter.
And apparently, I wasn't as good at hiding my curiosity as I thought.
Because that afternoon, during a free period, I sat staring out the window…
toward the field…
and yes, toward the teachers' room on the second floor—where Mr. Aslan stood, leaning on the balcony railing.
"If you stare any longer, he might catch fire, Dinah."
The voice was cool and sharp. Anira.
I jolted. "Huh?"
"I'm starting to worry you're falling for your own teacher," she said, sliding into the seat behind me, her chin resting on her hand.
Her face was as emotionless as ever, but her eyes locked on mine—straight, unflinching, as if reading my thoughts without permission.
"You're being too obvious," she murmured. "People will start noticing. Including him."
I froze.
"I-I'm not—I'm just… curious," I stammered, my cheeks warming.
"Hm." Anira let out a quiet breath. "That kind of curiosity can be misunderstood, you know."
I fell silent.
"Your stare just now… could've burned through glass. He must've noticed."
"But I was just curious," I insisted weakly.
Truth is, I wasn't sure anymore.
Was I just curious?
Or was there something strange growing inside me every time I saw Mr. Aslan standing before the class, holding a marker like a sword, explaining formulas as if they were art—or strategy?
Was it because he was different from anyone I'd ever met?
Or because his silence somehow felt deeper than a thousand words?
I didn't know.
But one thing was certain:
Since he arrived, there was a new space in my mind—one constantly filled with his image.
Cold. Mysterious. Untouchable.
And now, even Anira had noticed it.
"If you're interested, be careful," she said at last. Her tone changed slightly—still cold, but more like a warning.
"People like him… they don't live in the same world as us."
I looked at her, wanting to ask what she meant, but she had already looked away, slipping her earphones back in without another word.
And for the first time, I felt that what she said wasn't just about Aslan being a teacher.
It was something deeper—like a secret only a few people knew.
And Anira… knew.
I lowered my eyes back to my book, trying to focus again.
But deep down, I knew I was already in too deep.
And I wasn't ready to stop finding out who my mysterious new neighbor—our math teacher, Mr. Aslan—really was.
The one who could make me lose focus…
with nothing but a single, cold gaze.
----------------
That day, the weather was bright.
Too bright, even.
The sky was cloudless, the birds were chirping in the distance, and everything seemed perfectly ordinary… until math class began.
As everyone sat tensely, waiting for the most feared teacher in the entire school, I realized something—
something that made the blood drain from my body and rush straight to my feet.
Nervously, I stared at my notebook.
The one that should've been filled with answers to the logarithm assignment he had given a few days ago.
But somehow, I'd put it off for too long. And now, I had forgotten all about it.
Arvin turned to me. "What's wrong?" he whispered.
I didn't answer. My throat felt dry.
Then my name was called.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Slowly, I stood up and walked to the front—not to submit my work, but to face something I desperately wanted to run from.
"Where's your assignment?" Mr. Aslan asked, his tone low but heavy with pressure.
I lowered my head. "I'm sorry, sir… I forgot."
The entire class went silent.
A suffocating kind of silence.
I could feel everyone's eyes on me—Jaya's, Mika's, Bayu's, even Sasha's.
Mr. Aslan didn't speak for several seconds.
His eyes were like lasers, sharp and unblinking. Then, with a voice cold enough to slice through the air, he said:
"Get out. Stand under the flagpole. Until my class is over."
I looked at him, stunned. "S–Sir…"
He rose from his chair and met my gaze directly.
"Do you think this is a playground? Do you think I stand here just to listen to excuses from lazy students?"
I said nothing.
I couldn't.
My heart stopped beating for a moment.
"I don't need excuses. I need responsibility," he said, his eyes unflinching.
"If you can't bring responsibility into this classroom, then you don't deserve to be in it."
Those words… cut deeper than I could bear.
My legs trembled as I turned around and walked toward the door, leaving behind a room filled with silence—
a silence mixed with pity… and relief that it wasn't them in my place.
Each step felt heavy.
Not because of my body, but because of the weight pressing on my chest—shame.
I stepped outside. Slowly.
The entire classroom seemed to echo my humiliation louder than any voice could.
I knew every pair of eyes was watching me leave.
I knew Jaya was probably laughing quietly to himself.
I knew Arvin probably felt guilty for not helping.
I knew Anira was likely just staring blankly, as always.
And I knew… Aslan—Mr. Aslan—wouldn't care at all.
When the door closed behind me, I took a deep breath.
The morning air no longer felt cool.
The flagpole stood tall and silent in the middle of the courtyard—
just like me, standing there with an indescribable sense of humiliation.
The only one outside the classroom.
The only student who failed.
And the most painful part of it all… was that it came from him.
I looked up at the empty sky.
Wondering, of all the teachers who could've punished me… why did it have to be him?
And why did it hurt so much—when he was angry at me?
The wind blew softly, carrying laughter from other classrooms…
and the faint sound of a math lesson continuing upstairs.
But I couldn't hear any of it clearly.
My head was filled with one thought:
Was my mistake really that big… that I deserved to be humiliated like this?
And somehow, even though I knew he was cold, strict, and intolerant,
I never expected…
that the pain would feel this deep.