The late-afternoon sun filtered through the trees like golden lace, making the world feel oddly softer than usual.
I pedaled my bike down the small slope behind our school, where the bàng trees lined up like sleepy soldiers. Their leaves, touched by the early signs of autumn, danced lazily through the air before landing on my handlebars, my hair, and maybe even in my tangled thoughts.
I was in twelfth grade — the final year of high school. Supposedly the year to focus, to chase dreams, to grow up.
People called me a top student. But being good at studying never meant I was good at... living.
Lately, everything in class had been tense. The stares. The whispered words that weren't really whispers. I knew I wasn't popular, but I didn't know how to fix that. Or whether I even should.
That evening, Mom asked me to pick up a few things from the supermarket near our temporary apartment. I normally avoided that alley — it was old, narrow, and too quiet. But the sky looked like it might rain, and I didn't want to say no.
I took a shortcut near the side of the market, just a concrete alleyway between two faded apartment buildings.
And then I heard it.
A harsh thud. A groan. Someone shouting.
- "You think you can just run away?"
"No mommy or daddy now, huh? What are you without them?"
> "Get on your knees and apologize!"
I froze.
My heart pounded. My hands turned cold.
In the middle of the alley, a group of boys — maybe four or five — surrounded a student in our school uniform. He looked thin, bruised, blood smeared on his cheek and knuckles, but he still stood tall.
His face was unreadable, his eyes steady.
- "I won't apologize," he said quietly. "I don't owe you anything."
I took a step back. My instinct screamed: *Run.*
But just as I turned, **someone tugged at my sleeve**.
A boy, messy-haired, anxious eyes, like someone who'd just crawled out of a locker. His face was pale, trembling.
-"Please…" he stuttered, voice cracking. "Can you… call the police? He helped me once. They're beating him because of me."
My throat tightened.
I wasn't brave. Not the kind of girl who jumps into danger. But I had my phone. And right across the alley was an old, broken-down police car that hadn't moved in weeks — but still had a working siren.
I turned on the alarm, and shouted:
- "THE COPS ARE COMING! THERE'S A FIGHT OVER HERE!"
The gang flinched, cursing as they scattered like startled animals.
And just like that, it was over. Almost.
I ran to the boy in uniform. "Are you okay? You're hurt. Should I take you to the hospital?"
He looked at me, one eye already swelling, but his gaze sharp.
"No. I'm fine."
"But—"
"I said I'm fine."
I hesitated. Bit my tongue. And turned to walk away.
But then the scrawny boy who'd asked me for help spoke up again:
"Thank you. Both of you… If you hadn't done that, I… I don't know what would've happened."
I didn't answer. Just kept walking.
Rain began to fall — soft and scattered — like tears no one dared to cry out loud.
I didn't know his name.
But I had a feeling...
That boy's face would stay with me for a very long time.