After classes ended, several students gathered in the student-council office.

Different classes, ranks, and genders—everyone had come for one reason: Aria Seren.

The meeting’s host, Student Council President Mikael Rein, opened the discussion in a calm yet uncompromising voice.

“Everyone’s heard about Aria Seren’s incident. A classmate’s suicide attempt is nothing we can take lightly.”

Some of those present had once ignored Aria; others now wanted desperately to help her.

“I honestly had no idea she was struggling,” one student admitted. “She was always so quiet…”

The only witness to Aria’s stabbing, Ian, finally spoke.

“I saw it myself. She picked up the sword without a moment’s hesitation. Her eyes were… empty—no emotion at all.”

Silence fell. The weight of his words pressed on every heart.

Mikael resumed.

“I overheard a conversation between professors. They said when someone who’s normally quiet and withdrawn suddenly acts bright and lively, it can be an even more dangerous sign.”

He paused, then added softly, “They might attempt suicide a second time. Ian was lucky enough to find her once, but we can’t count on luck again.”

A ripple of anxiety moved through the room. Each student chewed over the same thought:

Should I have done more back then…?

Mikael drew a long breath.

“There’s one more point we need to address.”

His gaze dropped, then lifted, steady and firm.

“Judy.”

She jerked in surprise, eyes wide.

“Do you realize there was a problem with the way you apologized?”

“…What did I…?” Judy faltered.

“On that day, you gave a public apology in front of half the academy, laying out every private detail.

It was impulsive—a way to ease your own guilt.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn’t let her.

“A real apology considers whether the other person can actually receive it. Yours cornered Aria, forced her private pain back into the spotlight. What you thought was repentance could easily become a second wound.”

Judy’s words dried up. The rest of the students sat in heavy silence.

Mikael exhaled, bowing his head.

“We’ve all hurt Aria—directly or indirectly. Instead of scrambling for redemption points, let’s focus on making her feel safe.”

A girl in round glasses timidly raised her hand.

“I know it’s late, but… I still want to support Aria.”

The quiet statement sent gentle ripples through the room. Heads began to nod.

“Me too,” someone murmured.

“I don’t want to stand by like nothing happened.”

Watching their reactions, Mikael spoke again.

“First rule: don’t pry. Dragging her ‘pretending to be fine’ act into the open will only add pressure. Attention can be poison.”

His tone stayed firm, but warmth threaded through it.

“Start small—say hello, swap seats if it helps, just… be nearby without making a show of it.”

“…Will that really help?” a student asked.

Ian, silent until now, answered quietly.

“It will. That day, she was utterly alone when she gave up.

The emptiness in her eyes… it said she’d stopped expecting anything from the world.”

Another hush. Then Mikael’s voice, steady and resolute:

“Then let’s become something she can expect—starting now.”