Hollow Effort

Just another day at the same school. Funny how much the world changes, and how much it doesn’t. This wasn’t the middle school I used to drag my feet through every day, but three days was all it took for my body to fall into routine.

I trudged up the same stairs, down the same halls, slipped into the same seat. The desk was a second bed. My body slouched into the grooves like it had been waiting for me, the edge digging into my ribs in a way that should’ve hurt but didn’t. The clock’s minute hand hovered a finger’s width from the hour. I blinked once, twice, then let sleep claim me.

The next thing I knew, tapping on the wood rattled me awake. My teacher stood there, with an expression sharper than usual. She slid a piece of paper across my desk.

78.

It’s not a bad grade. Not great either, just… enough. I started to let my head sink back down, but her voice caught me:

“You can do much better than this if you just apply yourself, Akito.” She spoke with genuine care and concern. It was irritating.

I blinked at her. That wasn’t right. She didn’t say things like that. Normally it was “good work” if you broke 70, “great job” if you broke 90, and silence for everything in below. But today, her eyes softened.

For a moment, it felt familiar. Warm. Like someone else’s gaze bleeding through. But before I could place it, she shook her head lightly, turned away, and the room shifted back to normal. Just the same bland indifference.

I wanted to chase that warmth, but I didn’t. I let it slip away. What would be the point? Everyone wishes for an upgrade, but it seemed only I was okay where I am. It’s not like it can get any worse, I’m already at the bottom.

Lunch was worse.

The cafeteria hummed like a machine, chatter and clatter pressed flat into white noise. My tray was neat but flavorless, plain white rice, overcooked vegetables, a thin soup with no salt. I sat alone, and nobody joined me. Not that I wanted them to. Not that I even wanted the food. I’m only here because it’s easier than because accused of trying to skip school.

I ate mechanically. Bite, chew, swallow. It was enough to keep me moving, and enough was all I cared for. Allowing myself to be hungry and desire good foods that were my favorite felt like too much work. Trying to find company felt like too much work. Wanting anything at all felt like too much work.

After school brought the real test. Home economics. Rather, a club similar to it. My parents wanted me to be involved in school, to join a club. So, I joined what I thought would be the easiest one, but even still being involved takes too much out of me.

They got me to join by enticing me with cookies. I was thinking this would be a blow off club, that everyone was here for the same thing, to claim to be doing something. I was mistaken, those weren’t storebought cookies, but homemade.

The assignment today was simple, partner cooking. Make something edible. Easy enough, though I hadn’t expected the memory it dragged back, rain on the windows, yakisoba hissing in the pan, the warmth of having made something with my own hands.

I killed the memory fast. No point digging it up. It was strange though, a memory didn’t quite classify this thought, more like a premonition. Déjà vu.

My partner did most of the work as I stood nearby doing nothing besides stirring the pot when told, pretending to measure when asked. The scent of soy sauce and ginger filled the room, the pan popping with oil.

At one point, my partner stepped out to make a call to their parents making arrangements for getting home in the rain, and then the noodles caught. I could’ve stepped in, lowered the flame, and salvaged what was left. I knew enough to do that. But my hand froze over the stove. All I could think was, If I leave it, she’ll fix it. She always does. Someone always does.

I let it burn.

My partner ran back in at the sight, gently pushed me out of the way and turned off the stove. The teacher came over, clapped my partner on the shoulder, praised her for saving the dish. And consoling her, trying to keep everyone’s spirits high despite the disaster. While this was happening, I slid back into the background, content to fade into the shadows.

Cleanup dragged on after everyone else left. My partner stayed behind to salvage what she could, patient, determined, stirring a new pan of noodles with steady hands. I lingered too, hovering at the edge of the counter. Not because I wanted to help, not really. But because leaving didn’t seem like the right course of action.

So, I stood there. Watching. Pretending to help, to be doing something. Pretending that staying late was proof that I wasn’t lazy, and that I truly was doing something with my life. Pretending that the weight of my silence was the same as effort. Besides if she needed some help, she could always just ask. But she didn’t need or even want my help.

When she was finished, the smell filled the room, ginger, garlic, soy, everything I hadn’t touched. She plated it neatly, carried it up front. The teacher, who didn’t look the slightest bit annoyed at staying late, praised her again, smiling in that way that would made the whole class glow even though there was no one left to see it.

No one but me, shrinking further into the background, deeply annoyed that I choose to stay. After both the teacher and my partner headed out, I stayed back taking the time to clean the pots and utensils used.

After I cleaned up everything in the kitchen, I looked towards the front of the class and saw left behind were two plates The first with the noodles I let burn, dry, lifeless, empty. Then hers, sharp with flavor, alive in a way mine wasn’t.

The gulf between them wasn’t just taste. It was will. Effort. Care. And the only thing I felt was relief that it hadn’t been my responsibility to make either.

Why push harder if I can scrape by?

Why risk failure if someone else will always step in?

Why try at all?

The thoughts spiraled, dragging me down like a current.

By the time I finally left the clubroom, the halls were dim and empty. Rain tapped faintly against the windows. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it was enough that I stayed behind, that I’d shown some kind of resolve.

At home, my parents were waiting, beaming as I slipped off my shoes.

“We’re so glad you’re loving this club,” my father said.

“Stayed late helping out, did you?” my mother asked.

I shrugged, brushing it off. “All we did today was partner cooking.”

They beamed, pleased with their idea of my efforts, and I let their warmth wash over me, as if it rightfully belonged to me. I started heading up the stairs into my room, but my sister leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, and eyes sharp. “You didn’t do anything at all, did you?”

The words cut, but I pretended not to hear. I slipped past her, up the stairs, into my room. And when I fell onto my bed, I told myself again that staying late meant something, a lesser person would’ve left sooner or not have gone at all. That the world hadn’t seen through me yet. That I was still trying, that I hadn’t given up.

That it was enough. It had to be.