Josh didn't tell me his plan.
Which should've been my first clue that he had one.
By lunch, I was already trying to disappear again. Slinking through the hallway like a shadow, head down, footsteps soft. I didn't want more bruises. I didn't want more anything.
But fate had an eleven-year-old wildcard on standby.
I only heard about it later, how it all went down.
Josh spotted one of the boys, the tall one who shoved me, laughing near the vending machines with his friends.
And Josh?
Josh marched up to him like a tiny general going to war.
No hesitation.
Just pure, chaotic energy.
He stood right in front of the guy, chin tilted up, hands on his hips.
"You."
The older boy blinked. "What?"
"I know what you did."
The guy laughed. "What are you, five?"
"I'm eleven and three quarters," Josh snapped. "And if you touch my brother again, I swear to God I'll stick your lunch tray up your nose and make you eat backwards for a week!"
Everyone stared.
A beat of silence. Then laughter, nervous at first, then wild.
Josh didn't care.
He launched himself forward in a full-body, small-but-furious, snack-powered shove.
It didn't knock the boy over, but it shocked him enough to stumble back a step, a ripple of surprise running through the crowd.
Then a teacher rounded the corner.
And that was that.
Cut to the office.
Josh: arms crossed, scowling like he was the one being wronged.
Vice Principal: pinching the bridge of her nose.
Me: called in fifteen minutes later because "your brother said this was all about you."
I sat in the plastic chair outside, watching Josh through the glass as he argued passionately about "justice" and "sibling defense clauses."
When he saw me, his whole face lit up.
Then he mouthed, "I got him", and gave me a crooked thumbs-up.
I should've been mad.
But all I felt was this ache in my chest; something warm and painful at the same time.
He didn't need to win the fight.
Just showing up was enough.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The bell had rung twenty minutes ago.
Most of the school had already emptied out. Bikes gone, buses gone, noise gone.
But I lingered, pretending to re-tie my shoelace for the third time. Pretending I wasn't waiting.
I didn't hear her footsteps.
Just her voice.
"You're late," Lena said, casual as ever, though her eyes were already scanning my face.
"Got held up," I muttered.
I bent to unlock my bike but winced as I reachedmy side pulling tight where the bruise was blooming under my shirt.
Lena noticed.
Of course she did.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," I said too quickly. "Just… tripped."
She didn't answer for a long second. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken truths.
Then, softly, "Ash."
Her voice, when she used my name like that, made something in me flinch. Not because it hurt… because it felt like she actually saw me.
She stepped closer.
I didn't move.
Her hand hovered for a moment, then gently brushed my sleeve up.
I froze.
A smudge of blue-black peeked just above the hem.
Her face changed. Not shock. Not horror. Just sadness, like she had suspected it already.
"You tripped?" she echoed.
I nodded.
We both knew it was a lie.
But she didn't call me on it.
She just looked at me for a long time, the silence stretching like a thread pulled too tight.
Then she asked, barely above a whisper,
"Did I do something wrong?"
I blinked. "What?"
"You've been pulling away," she said. "You barely talk anymore. Not really. Not the way you used to."
I looked away.
I wanted to tell her it wasn't her.
That it was everything.
That I felt like I was rotting on the inside and trying to smile over it.
But I couldn't find the words.
"I'm just tired," I said instead.
She didn't believe me, but she didn't push.
Instead, she reached out and took my hand; slow, gentle, like asking for permission without asking out loud.
Her fingers laced with mine. Warm. Still.
I stared at our hands like they were someone else's.
We didn't say anything after that.
We just stood there, two kids holding hands by the bike rack, like it meant something.
Or maybe nothing at all.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The house was still.
Josh had been sent to bed early after The Incident, and Mom and Dad were in their room, probably arguing softly over something they thought we couldn't hear.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, sketchbook open in my lap, pen in hand.
I told myself I was just drawing, but my hand didn't want to draw.
It wanted to write.
So I flipped to a blank page, not the front, somewhere in the middle, between half-finished doodles and graphite ghosts of Lena's smile.
I started to write.
Not planning the words, just letting them fall.
Dear Lena,
I'm not going to give you this letter. So maybe I can actually say what I mean.
I think you're glowing.
Not in some dumb, poetic way. I mean, really. Every time I look at you lately, you seem brighter. Like something inside you is catching a light I can't reach. Like you're growing up, growing forward, and I'm still stuck in place.
Or worse, slipping backward.
You laugh like nothing weighs you down. I laugh less, even when I try. I'm scared of becoming the thing that holds you back. Or drowns you.
Some days I feel invisible.
Other days I feel like everyone's watching, waiting for me to break again.
You asked if you did something wrong.
You didn't.
I'm just breaking quieter than I used to.
But your hand was warm today.
And for a moment, I didn't feel like a burden.
I just felt like a boy.
I miss you.
Even when you're standing right beside me.
— Ash
I stared at the words for a long time.
Will there ever be a time I can actually say them to her?
Or are these words just meant to die quietly inside me?