The week after the fight at school felt endless.
Jayden kept his distance from everyone — Terrence at the group home, the teachers at school, even Ms. Delaney. Especially Tasha.
He moved like a ghost through his days: silent at breakfast, quiet in the classroom, locked in his room sketching until his hand cramped. The walls around him felt thinner, like any small push would make them cave in.
At the Group Home
The tension built slowly.
Terrence didn't forget the way Jayden had snapped over the sketchbook. Every chance he got, he pushed. A muttered joke here, a shove in the hallway there.
One night, when the boys were lining up for curfew checks, Terrence leaned close and whispered, "Heard your girl dropped you. Guess even broken toys get boring."
Jayden's vision blurred red.
His fists itched.
It would've been so easy to swing, to let his anger speak for him again.
But this time, he stopped.
He pictured Malik's crooked grin. Not every fight is worth your peace.
He pictured Malik's voice steady in the dark. Don't let them write your story for you.
He turned, jaw tight, and walked away.
The laughter followed, but for once, he didn't explode.
At School
Teachers watched him closely now, waiting for him to mess up. Every time he raised his voice, their pens hovered over referral slips. He hated the feeling — like he was trapped in a cage nobody else could see.
But the art room was still his escape.
He sat there after school, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, sketching city skylines, faces he half-remembered, and the cracks in his own reflection.
Tasha still wasn't talking to him.
Some days she passed by the art room without looking in.
Other days, he thought he saw her hesitate, but she kept walking.
The empty space where she used to sit felt louder than Terrence's jokes or Marcus's shoves.
The Breaking Point
One afternoon, a substitute teacher lost patience with him.
"You've got so much potential, Jayden, but you're wasting it," she snapped.
He stared at the desk, heat crawling up his neck.
"I said, are you even listening?"
Something cracked inside him.
"No!" he barked, slamming his fist onto the desk. The whole class jumped.
Silence.
The teacher's face tightened. "Office. Now."
Walking down the hall, Jayden's fists shook. He hated himself for snapping. Hated the teacher for pushing. Hated the system for always waiting for him to fail.
But most of all, he hated how right she was.
---
Reflection
That night, back in his room, Jayden stared at his sketchbook.
He opened to a blank page, but his hand wouldn't move.
Instead, he wrote:
If I can't hold it in, I'll burn it all down.
He stared at the words until they blurred.
Then, quietly, he tore the page out, folded it, and tucked it under his pillow like a secret.
For the first time in a long time, he wondered if maybe he needed someone to see the fire before it consumed him.