A few weeks have passed since the start of the school year. By now, everyone in the school knows Miaro. She has become the most popular girl in the entire school. We already know how beautiful she is. But let me tell you—Miaro is far more than just beautiful.
You know, the series of exercises seem endless in class between the second and third months. In such an overwhelming workload, few students in Madagascar manage to complete all their assignments. Even among those who do, only one or two get all the answers right. There are moments during the correction of math or physics exercises when no one is able to go up to the board. These are real problems that require more reasoning than just applying methods. And when it comes to solving second-degree polynomials, those with parameters are on a whole different level for these young sophomores.
A student named Tojo stands frozen at the board, unsure of what to write. His turn has come precisely for the most challenging problem—the one he couldn't solve, neither with his friends nor on his own. Perhaps the real problem isn't the equation itself but the mocking stares behind him or the teacher standing before him. Tojo silently prays for the Lord to ease his suffering. And the Lord hears his prayer.
The math teacher asks if anyone in the room knows how to tackle the problem. Of course, no one dares to stand up. So, Miaro does. She had been waiting, just in case someone else—someone who knew the answer and wanted the glory—would take the opportunity. More than that, she was hoping for someone braver, someone who might not know the answer but would at least try. But the class had no such person. It was up to her to act so the lesson wouldn't lose momentum. She solves the problem with ease, carefully laying out every step leading to the solution. Her work is so clean, clear, and precise that the teacher can't help but clap his hands. The students follow suit. Miaro returns to her seat, slightly embarrassed, but she was raised to take responsibility when the world merely laments its fate. She is a leader. She is the brilliant façade behind which everything seems flawless. Her presence alone is enough to conceal imperfections. People see only her, and in her shadow, every flaw disappears.
So, for them, it was now time for Physical Education.
Miaro laced up a sleek pair of Gel Rocket 11s—the pride of the Japanese brand Asics, renowned for its high-quality sports gear. These shoes were fit for elite indoor athletes, particularly in volleyball. On Asics' official U.S. website, they were priced at $75, which translated to approximately 351,899.25 Ariary. A true cutting-edge model on the market. For now, what stood out the most was their design. Few understood their advanced sports technology and aesthetic appeal. As usual, her classmates could only admire it, admire her. They had questions, but Miaro's piercing gaze stopped them from thinking too much. Her long legs were elegantly outlined by the black leggings she wore beneath her mini-shorts. Her discreet yet defined curves were subtly highlighted by her fitted T-shirt. And now, with her hair tied back in a ponytail, her face was fully visible—radiant and striking.
The boys turned as red as tomatoes watching her run. Her posture had a slightly masculine edge when she sprinted, her zeal radiating for miles. But between two strides, she threw a few glances—subtle, fleeting smiles that electrified the atmosphere. And that was enough to send the most foolish ones into a burst of energy. After flashing her smile at them, her eyes quickly returned to the ground. he deep black of her pupils dominated the rest of her visible orbit, peeking timidly from beneath her thick eyelids…
Now, it's the team sport. Miaro is at the service. And her ace does not match at all with the delicacy of her appearance. In fact, the power she seems to release is in the technique. Thanks to her controlled momentum, her flexibility, and her agility, her serve shoots like lightning, crashing onto the opponent's court in a firework of power. And that, none of these girls can handle it. Their only chance is to wait for Miaro to miss her serve.
But on the court, Miaro is even more dangerous. She is never too muscular. A few grams of flesh cover her body well, but compared to her length, it's not enough to take her out of the slim category. She would be a lean cat among those who practice martial arts. She is fast and agile on the court to catch missed receptions, then turn them into superb passes. The ball crosses from the second line to the first like a streak of rainbow light. In front of the net, it's easier to hit the ball. As long as Miaro touches the ball, whether on the first, second, or third hit, even beginners become stars. I said it. Miaro has this incredible power to cover every bad facade.
When the students who finish at eleven o'clock see this team in action, they only see one thing: a formidable team, because Miaro is part of it. But when Miaro sees the students leaving their classroom, a thought crosses her mind: stop, take a shower before the crowd swarms her.
And the shower...
The droplets beat their rhythm on Miaro's beautiful face like a succession of Hi-hats, a percution when these drops hit the ground. The cool air whistles as it sneaks under the door, adding its own melody to the mix. A melody that can even be heard through her body. So she shudders. She flinches. This piece has no singer, and no one should add a voice to it. No one! Anything that disrupts this rhythmic silence is nothing but an insult to this natural elegance. And Miaro is cultured. She knows many great songs, but this remains the best piece her beautiful ears have ever heard.
She calls it "the anthem of peace." There's no one more patriotic than Miaro. She stands straight as a sign of respect, more respectful than when singing the "Ry tanindrazanay malala," under the stream, her eyes closed. She doesn't need to see, only to listen, and to feel it in her whole body and soul. Her breath synchronizes with the rhythm of the whole. She smiles, sincerely, this time. It's a suspended moment, a brief escape from the outside turmoil...
Then, a voice rises. A mediocre voice. A shrill voice that knows neither art nor harmony. This voice knows only hypocrisy and power. In short, a voice that shouldn't be there.
— " Miaro! "
Her refuge collapses.
— " Let's go eat! "
She opens her eyes. End of the musical performance.
Later, around twelve o'clock, blue coats, representing hundreds of students, gather in front of the restaurants, cafeterias, and food stalls located near the main gate of the school. The price of each dish in these establishments doesn't go below 5000 ariary. And probably, the total could reach 20,000 ariary for a rice dish. And when we say "rice dish," even though we, the Malagasy, eat rice as our main food, rice doesn't even make up a quarter of the plate. You'd probably be disappointed by the quantity if you were hungry after math and sports. But as for the quality, there's enough to satisfy your taste buds and your health. Anyway, these places are only accessible to a handful of students. Yes, I admit, I said "hundreds of students," but about two to three hundred out of the three thousand students who attend the school isn't a lot. It's just around six percent, so…
But Miaro and her friends are sitting at a table in one of those restaurants. They are waiting for their orders. Miaro chose the spot with the best view of the outside world. That way, if she gets bored, all she has to do is look out there, and her eyes will always lead her to places her body couldn't go. Yet, from the outside, a boy who notices her from a distance interprets her gesture as what is called "une pose un peu distraite." He's been wanting her since he first saw her. He sees her often in the café. But even for him, who has the luxury of treating girls like toys, Miaro remains an impenetrable figure. She has no cracks. She doesn't seem to need big muscles to protect her, nor a popular guy, nor a rich guy, nor a pretty boy— I mean handsome or whatever. She possesses all these qualities within herself. He knew. He knew very well that he had nothing to impress her with. But it's a crazy race. The more he lingers, the more the crocodiles will attack her. So he goes for it:
— "Hey girls!" he says with a big smile.
Miaro's friends look at each other, their faces clearly surprised. The girls are excited.
— "Oh my God. If it isn't the rising star, Rija. What's it like being the representative of the official basketball team of the school already in the second year?"
— "Oh, you know girls, I'm not the only one."
— "Everyone knows you're the best."
— "... And Miaro, aren't you joining the volleyball team?"
Then everyone's gaze shifts to Miaro. She feels embarrassed.
— "Oh… I missed the selection. It was dumb."
— "No, we all know you've been busy. Besides, the selection is just a show; we already know who's in and who's not."
— "What? That would be an insult to those who put in all their effort to get a spot." Miaro says.
— "Yeah, but Miaro, you're already part of the national team. It'd be an insult not to call you up."
Rija is surprised by this last comment.
— "What? Miaro's on the national team?"
Then her friends laugh.
— "What, you didn't know? She's the captain of the U16."
Rija is speechless. Then Miaro says:
— "Girls, it's just volleyball. It's... it's nothing special."
But Rija adds:
— "On top of being beautiful, you're modest too."
But then the server arrives at their table.
— "Ladies, your order."
— "I'll leave you girls. My presence could very well ruin your appetite."
But Miaro's friends insist.
— "No, please stay."
— "Miaro doesn't seem to agree."
But for Miaro, it doesn't matter at all.
— "What? ... No! You do whatever you want."
— "See, Miaro, despite her social status, is very friendly. So sit down and order."
The girls are enthusiastic. And yes, this kind of reaction is obvious for high school students. In a high school, there must always be a Madonna like Miaro that everyone dreams of having. There must be a famous athlete like Rija that everyone respects and that all the girls want. And then there are the sidekicks, like Miaro's friends, who firmly believe that she and Rija are the ultimate couple. Of course, there are also losers like me, secretly crushing on Miaro, unable to express my love for her because our existence is so insignificant. Here we are, hoping, in our shy corner, to have that slim chance, the "one in a thousand," like Haintso, of being noticed. But in the end, it's Haintso who wins among all these extras. And God willed it so. And the author willed it so. Rija knows. He feels it when he looks at Miaro. Her words: "You do whatever you want," ring like an unprecedented neglect to him. But Miaro is a reality that's hard to swallow. And us losers, we know it all. But we're weak. We live with it... Not all of us are capable of scoring fifty points under the basket in four quarters… Haha, it's ridiculous.
OK, sorry let's continue.
Rija could be perceived as an aesthete of social image, someone who sees Miaro as a kind of trophy, a symbol of status. And this creates that interesting dynamic: the obsession some have with people like Miaro, who seem to have everything others want—whether it's beauty, talent, or intellect. This type of behavior can be fueled by envy or a sense of competition, especially in a guy like Rija, who enjoys challenges, even if he might be more interested in the dominance, he could have over Miaro than in the person she actually is.
And Miaro understood this very well. But she said nothing. Perhaps if she ignored it, everything would go back to normal. But it's still tiring.
All of this is tiring…
She thinks to herself…
Miaro puts down her pen. Her eyes wander over the page of her notes, but her mind drifts elsewhere. The Malagasy teacher is speaking, but the words blur into a distant haze, like echoes that don't matter. She can't even focus on the lesson.
She still calls him "the boy with the intense gaze." A gaze that asked for nothing but seemed to say everything. Unlike those like Rija, whose smiles and gestures always sought a purpose, an advantage to gain, this gaze—belonging to the boy she hadn't seen in six weeks—seemed to be there without any hidden motives. It was sincere in its presence. Miaro remembers the smile he gave her, like a silent promise of a world where she wouldn't have to carry this fatigue. A world where there were no trophies, just glances that meet and understand each other.
I must be crazy...
She says...
After the Malagasy class, Miaro heads to the school library. Her chauffeur could very well pick her up at this hour, but she loves books. For her, it's a way to escape. I mean, there's a paradox. Miaro loves tranquility, but she doesn't like her big house that only houses her, her mother, her father, and a few servants. She always thought her house smelled of despair. The library, on the other hand, is a magical place. The people who frequent the library are open-minded. We're all here to venture into the imaginary world. And we're not many. And no one bothers anyone. So Miaro wants to stay. Books fill her energy when she's tired. And that's what she does.
Miaro flips through the book, the pages sliding under her long fingers with a soft familiarity. The words seem to reach her in a silent breath. But suddenly, someone makes a remark.
— "I thought 'The Little Prince' would be free since children our age probably find it very childish."
A shiver runs through her: "What? Children our age? ... Childish?" The calm voice she hears seems to cut through the peaceful atmosphere. Miaro slowly turns her head. There, right in front of her, Haintso stands with a slight smirk. He's there, like an apparition, almost intangible. She doesn't even know how he got there. So, she turns her head aimlessly from left to right, just out of reflex. Then, she wakes up. She catches herself.
— "The... The Little Prince is actually a... a poetic and deep reflection. So..."
Haintso stares at Miaro. He looks at her so intently as if he's reading deep inside her. And Miaro feels it. She feels exposed.
You see, it would be difficult to understand this logic, but in our lives, there are people like Haintso who can understand a person at first glance. There are people like Miaro who are aware of the situation without even thinking about it. It would be even crazier to say that all of this is instinct. These people are extremely rare, but they exist. But let's continue.
Then, curious, Haintso says:
— "So?"
— "So, I read it."
— "I see," he says calmly, still smiling.
— "But I would perhaps add 'poetic and profound about the search for oneself, human relationships, and the search for meaning in life,'" he adds again.
Miaro feels completely lost. Two big questions arise in her head: who? and what? "Who" as in for whom? and "what" as in why this remark? She then responds:
— "You have a gift for making interesting observations."
— "Ah... no, it's just the experience of reading that makes me ramble. But honestly, I only read the series when I really need an answer."
Haintso laughs silently, like a madman, not to attract the librarian's attention. Then, he adds his words with a suddenly serious air:
— "Too bad that one's occupied today... oh well."
Now it's Miaro's turn to laugh. Would you have laughed? But Miaro was convinced it was funny. Then Haintso continues, still smiling:
— "Okay, first come, first served. No hard feelings. I wish you a good read."
He starts walking, probably looking for another book. But Miaro intervenes:
— "M... (She hesitates, then corrects herself.) My name is Miaro."
Haintso stops, looks at her for a moment, then gives a slight smile:
— "Oh, yes, of course. The introduction. Where was my head?" He pauses briefly, as if realizing he had forgotten that detail. (How can you forget such a detail, though?)
— "Sorry, I'm Haintso. Nice to meet you." Miaro, unconsciously, smiles too, and is surprised... super surprised even:"Me too."
Haintso goes to get another book from the shelf. Miaro steals glances at him. He too occasionally turns his gaze towards Miaro and then smiles at her. When he finally finds his book, he checks it out with the librarian and leaves without Miaro even realizing. When she looks up, he's gone. Like a dream.
Like a dream, yes...
She says...