My locker jammed again.
I jiggled the handle, then kicked it lightly so no one would notice. The metal groaned and popped open, protesting. I looked inside.
And my stomach dropped.
Three lines scrawled in black Sharpie across the inside of the door, fat and angry:
"Loser."
"Lena's pet."
"Why are you still here?"
My hands felt clammy. My heart hammered against my ribs. I glanced around quickly. No one was looking.
The sound of laughter echoed from down the hall. Not at me. Just laughter. But it still made my hands clench into fists.
I reached for the bottom of my sleeve and rubbed at the marker. It smeared a little, leaving a smudge on my cuff. Permanent ink, temporary dignity.
I scrubbed harder, the rough fabric against the cold metal.
The hallway felt too bright. Everything too exposed. I hated that my name was even written in ink, as if I mattered enough to be noticed and hated.
I kept scrubbing.
Some of it came off. Most of it stayed, a stain on the metal, a heavier stain on my gut.
I closed the locker quietly. If it didn't slam, maybe none of this would be real.
Then I saw her.
Lena. At the end of the hall. Laughing with Max, her hands animated, her ponytail bouncing. Her smile was full of light, as if it didn't know darkness existed. As if mine never mattered.
She hadn't seen me.
I turned away before she could.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The hallway near the gym always smelled of sweat and rubber soles. It was one of those in-between spaces, loud when full, hollow when empty. I went there for quiet. I should have known better. Quiet doesn't stay unbroken for long.
"Hey, Bennett."
I stopped.
Three boys. Same ones as before.
One held a bag of chips. Another grinned like this was just a game.
"Didn't see you around lately," one said. His voice was light. Easy. The kind that always made the danger worse.
I didn't answer, just adjusted my bag and kept walking.
The first shove hit my shoulder and sent me hard against the lockers. The sound rang down the corridor, sharp as metal on bone.
They laughed.
"Relax, man," said the tall one. "We're just talking."
He wasn't. His hand clamped on my strap and ripped it off my bag, flinging it onto the floor. My sketchbook spilled open, a half-finished drawing of something that used to feel important.
"Lena's not here, huh? Bet she's finally smart enough to stay away," one said. By now, I understood nudging the paper with his shoe.
I bent to pick it up. Mistake.
A boot hit my ribs. Not a full kick. Just enough to make my breath hitch. I dropped to my knees, eyes lowered, the rule repeating in my head: If you don't react, it ends faster.
One of them leaned close, his voice quiet enough that only I heard it.
"Say something, freak."
I stared at the linoleum floor, tracing a crack in the tile. I stayed still until I heard laughter. The soft, satisfied kind people use when they know they've won.
Then came footsteps.
A teacher.
For half a second, hope.
The boys straightened like perfect posters of good behavior. "See you around, Bennett," one said brightly. They walked past the teacher in slow motion, like they belonged here.
The teacher looked at me. Or maybe just through me. Then kept walking.
For a moment, I just stayed there, sitting against the lockers, surrounded by the mess of myself. My breath came shallow, ribs aching in small pulses. The floor was cold through my jeans.
Someone's laughter echoed faintly from the gym, distant and ordinary. The world kept moving, and I was still here, gathering the pieces.
My bag strap was torn. My pencil cracked clean in two. The sketch, folded, creased and smudged beyond saving, looked like a memory I didn't want to remember.
I pressed a hand to my side. It hurt less than I expected. Or maybe I'd just gotten used to it.
When I finally stood, the lights above flickered once, like they couldn't decide if they wanted to stay. I walked out before they made up their mind.
The sound of my footsteps followed me, too loud, too alone.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I thought I was in the clear.
Most kids had already gone home or were spilling out to buses and bikes and after-school noise. I walked slower than usual, my bag slung over one shoulder, the other aching from earlier. Every step tugged at the sore spot on my ribs. I kept my head down.
A voice rang out behind me, sharp and impossible to ignore.
"Ash."
I winced before I even turned.
Josh.
He stood near the bathroom door, arms crossed, backpack hanging off one shoulder like he'd just wandered out of a cartoon brawl. His shirt was untucked. His hair was wild. His eyes were too serious.
"You're limping," he said, stepping closer. "No, I'm not," I muttered. "You are." He squinted, like that proved something.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
He narrowed his eyes. "Did someone hit you?"
I forced a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Josh, it's nothing. I just… tripped."
"Yeah?" His voice cracked, but it only made him louder.
"You trip into lockers a lot now?"
I froze.
He caught that.
Josh stepped right into my space, craning his neck to look up at me like he was about to punch the truth out of my face.
"You think I'm just a stupid kid, huh?"
"No, I…" "Then stop lying!"
His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the sleeves of his hoodie too long and fraying at the ends.
I didn't know what to say. So I looked down at my shoes like they'd help me disappear.
Josh kicked the wall with his sneaker. "You're not supposed to hide stuff like this from me. That's the rule. You said it, remember? When that jerk stole my sketchbook in third grade. You told me, 'We look out for each other. No matter what.'"
I swallowed hard.
When did he grow up enough to sound like me?
Josh turned and stormed off down the hall before I could answer. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight. A little superhero with too many feelings and not enough fists to throw them with.
I wanted to stop him.
But I didn't know how.
And part of me didn't feel like I deserved being saved.