The gate loomed ahead like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
Caden stood on the sidewalk outside Twilight Hills Academy, backpack straps cutting into his shoulders, feet rooted to concrete. Students flowed past him—laughing, shouting, earbuds in, phones out—moving around him like water around a rock. No one looked at him. No one cared.
That should have been comforting.
It wasn't.
His chest tightened. The air felt too thick, like breathing through wet cotton. His fingers went numb where they gripped his backpack straps, knuckles white. A high-pitched ringing started in his ears, faint at first, then louder, drowning out the chatter and car engines and birdsong.
I can't do this.
He took a step back.
Then another.
His body was already turning, already planning the route home, already composing the apology he'd give his parents—
"If you run now, you'll never come back."
Jane's voice cut through the ringing like a knife through fog.
Caden froze. She stood beside him, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression calm but eyes sharp. She wasn't smiling. Wasn't coddling him. Just stating a fact.
"I—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "I don't know if I can."
"You can," Jane said. Not *you will* or *you have to*. Just *you can*. Like it was already decided. Like she saw something in him he couldn't see in himself.
The gate waited.
Students kept flowing past.
Caden's heart hammered against his ribs.
Jane didn't move. Didn't push. Just stood there, solid and steady, like an anchor in a storm.
He took a breath.
Then a step forward.
Jane fell into stride beside him, and together, they walked through the gate.
The hallways were chaos.
Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped—shouts, laughter, arguments, gossip. Sneakers squeaked on polished floors. Someone's perfume was too strong, mixing with the smell of cleaning chemicals and old textbooks. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too harsh.
Caden felt every sound like a physical blow.
His skin prickled. His vision narrowed. Everyone was too close, too loud, too *much*. He kept his eyes down, focused on the scuffed tiles beneath his feet, but he could *feel* them looking.
Whispers brushed past his ears.
"—new kid—"
"—heard he's from—"
"—wonder why he transferred—"
They weren't talking about him. Probably. Maybe. He didn't know. His brain couldn't tell the difference anymore. Every glance felt like a spotlight. Every laugh felt like mockery.
A shoulder slammed into his.
Hard.
Caden stumbled, catching himself against a locker. His breath hitched. The hallway tilted. For a split second, he wasn't in Twilight Hills Academy—he was back in C-Wing, back against cold metal, surrounded by faces twisted with cruelty, hands shoving, voices chanting—
"Caden."
Jane's hand touched his elbow. Light. Grounding.
He blinked. The hallway snapped back into focus. The student who'd bumped him was already gone, hadn't even noticed. It was an accident. Just an accident.
Breathe.
Jane didn't say anything. Didn't make a scene. Just adjusted her backpack and kept walking, her presence a quiet reminder: You're not alone.
Caden followed, legs shaky, chest still tight.
"Caden Reyes?"
The voice was smooth, confident, and way too loud.
Caden turned.
A girl stood in front of him—tall, dark skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, hair in perfect box braids, blazer crisp and pressed. A badge pinned to her chest read: Student Body Council President – Amara Johnson.
She smiled. Bright. Polished. The kind of smile that belonged on a campaign poster.
"Welcome to Twilight Hills Academy!" Amara extended her hand. "I'm Amara, Student Body President. We're so excited to have you here."
Caden stared at her hand.
Everyone in the hallway was looking now. Actually looking. Watching the exchange like it was a performance.
His throat closed up.
Jane stepped in smoothly. "Amara, hey. This is Caden. He's still getting his bearings."
Amara's smile didn't falter. "Of course! First days are always overwhelming. Caden, if you need anything—tours, club info, someone to show you around—my office is always open."
She said it like she was doing him a favor. Like he should be grateful.
Caden managed a nod.
Amara's smile widened. "Great! I'll let you get to class. Welcome again!"
She walked away, heels clicking on tile, and the hallway slowly returned to its chaos.
Caden exhaled.
"She means well," Jane said quietly. "But yeah. She's a lot."
"I feel like I just got put on display," Caden muttered.
Jane snorted. "Because you did."
Principal Harris's office was too quiet.
The door clicked shut behind Caden, and suddenly the noise of the hallway was gone, replaced by oppressive silence. The office smelled like old coffee and leather. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with educational texts and motivational posters. A desk sat in the center, neat and organized, everything in its place.
Principal Harris stood behind it—middle-aged, graying hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled warmly.
"Caden. Welcome. Please, sit."
Caden sat. The chair was too soft. He sank into it, feeling small.
Principal Harris folded his hands on the desk. "I know transferring schools can be difficult, especially mid-year. But I want you to know that Twilight Hills Academy is a safe space. We're here to support you."
The word *support* landed wrong in Caden's chest. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
"Your transcripts arrived," Principal Harris continued, sliding a folder across the desk. "Excellent grades. Your teachers spoke highly of you."
Before everything fell apart, Caden thought bitterly.
"Here's your timetable." Principal Harris handed him a printed schedule. "If you need accommodations—extra time on tests, a quiet space during lunch—just let me know. We want you to succeed here."
Caden nodded mechanically.
Principal Harris's smile softened. "Fresh starts are possible, Caden. I believe that. I hope you will too."
Caden took the timetable.
He didn't believe it.
Not yet.
"Caden Reyes?"
The teacher's voice cut through the classroom chatter.
Caden's stomach dropped.
Every head turned toward him. Twenty pairs of eyes. Maybe more. He couldn't count. Couldn't breathe.
"Here," he said.
His voice came out too quiet. Barely a whisper.
Silence followed.
No laughter. No whispers. No cruelty.
Just... silence.
That was worse.
Saying here felt like confessing something. Like admitting he existed. Like painting a target on his back.
The teacher marked the attendance sheet and moved on. "Zane Ashford?"
"Here."
The class resumed its low hum of conversation.
Caden stared at his desk, heart pounding, hands trembling in his lap.
You're fine. You're fine. No one cares.
But his body didn't believe it.
Caden felt the stare before he saw who it belonged to.
It was a weight. A pressure. The kind of attention that made his skin crawl.
He glanced up.
A boy sat three rows over, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Pale skin. Messy dark hair. Sharp jawline. Eyes like storm clouds—gray and unreadable.
Zane Ashford.
Their eyes met.
The stare lingered. Half a second too long.
Caden's brain spiraled.
Does he know? Does he know what happened? Is he judging me? Is he dangerous?
Zane's expression didn't change. No smile. No sneer. Just... looking.
Then he turned away, attention shifting back to the teacher.
Nothing happened.
That made it worse.
Caden's hands curled into fists under the desk. His chest tightened. The ringing in his ears started again, faint but insistent.
Stop. Stop overthinking. He's just a guy. Just another student.
But Caden's body didn't believe that either.
"Yo, new kid!"
The voice was loud, bright, and entirely too cheerful.
Caden turned.
A boy bounded toward him—tall, broad-shouldered, dark brown skin, locs tied back, grin wide and infectious. He moved like he owned the hallway, like gravity didn't quite apply to him.
"Ryder," Jane said, half-exasperated, half-fond. "You're gonna scare him."
"Scare him? Me?" Ryder clutched his chest in mock offense. "I'm a delight."
Despite everything, Caden felt his lips twitch.
Ryder's grin widened. "There it is! A smile! I knew you had one in there."
"Ryder, this is Caden," Jane said. "Caden, this is Ryder. He's—"
"Charming. Hilarious. Devastatingly handsome." Ryder stuck out his hand. "Also Jane's better half."
"We're not dating," Jane said flatly.
"Yet," Ryder added with a wink.
Caden shook his hand, and for a moment—just a moment—the tightness in his chest eased. Ryder's energy was like oxygen. Easy. Light. Safe.
Then Caden laughed.
And immediately hated himself for it.
You don't get to relax. You don't get to feel safe. Not yet.
But Ryder just kept grinning, oblivious to the war raging inside Caden's head.
"Come on," Ryder said, slinging an arm around Caden's shoulders. "Let's get you to your next class before you get lost. This place is a maze."
Caden let himself be guided, Jane falling into step on his other side.
For a moment, it almost felt like he belonged.
Almost.
Art class was different.
The room smelled like paint and clay and possibility. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting soft golden light over easels and worktables. The teacher—Ms. Delgado, young and enthusiastic—smiled warmly when Caden walked in.
"Welcome! Grab any seat. We're working on personal projects today."
Caden chose a table in the back corner, away from the windows, away from the other students. He pulled out his sketchbook—worn, pages filled with half-finished drawings, smudged pencil lines, fragments of thoughts he couldn't put into words.
He started drawing.
Lines flowed. Shapes formed. His hands stopped shaking.
For the first time all day, Caden could breathe.
"That's beautiful."
Caden's hand froze.
Ms. Delgado stood beside his table, looking down at his sketch—a forest at twilight, trees twisting into shadows, a single figure standing at the edge.
"You have real talent," she said softly. "I'm glad you're in this class."
Caden nodded, throat tight.
Ms. Delgado moved on.
Then someone else leaned over his shoulder.
Caden's body tensed immediately. His breath hitched. His fingers curled around the pencil, knuckles white.
"Whoa, that's sick," a voice said—casual, friendly, not a threat.
But Caden's body didn't care.
The student walked away.
Caden sat frozen, heart pounding, hands trembling again.
Healing isn't linear.
He knew that.
But knowing didn't make it easier.
Lunch felt like borrowed time.
Caden sat at a table with Jane, Ryder, and—unexpectedly—Zane.
It looked like friendship. Four teenagers eating cafeteria food, laughing at Ryder's jokes, passing around a bag of chips.
But it felt fragile. Temporary. Like Caden was a guest in someone else's life, and any moment they'd realize he didn't belong.
Zane sat across from him, quiet, picking at his sandwich. He hadn't said much since they sat down. Just listened, occasionally smirking at Ryder's antics.
Then his eyes flicked to Caden.
"You draw?"
Caden froze. "What?"
"I saw your sketchbook. In art class." Zane's voice was low, rough around the edges. "You any good?"
It was a simple question.
But it felt too intimate. Too direct. Like Zane was looking past the surface, seeing something Caden didn't want seen.
"I—yeah. I guess," Caden stammered.
Zane nodded. "Cool."
That was it. He went back to his sandwich.
But Caden's brain spiraled.
Did I answer wrong? Did I sound stupid? Why is he asking? What does he want?
Jane kicked him lightly under the table.
Caden blinked. Looked at her.
She raised an eyebrow. You okay?
He nodded.
He wasn't.
After school, Caden found himself at the basketball court.
He didn't know why. Maybe because Jane mentioned it. Maybe because he didn't want to go home yet. Maybe because he needed to prove to himself that he could exist in a space without falling apart.
Zane and Ryder were already there, playing one-on-one. Ryder moved like a dancer—fluid, confident, laughing every time he scored. Zane was quieter, more controlled, but just as skilled.
Caden sat on the bleachers, backpack beside him, watching.
Jane appeared a few minutes later, sitting down next to him.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah," Caden lied.
Jane didn't push. Just sat with him, presence steady and grounding.
On the court, Ryder shouted something, and Zane laughed—a real laugh, unguarded and genuine.
Caden's chest tightened.
Then he felt it.
Eyes on him.
Not Jane. She was watching the game.
Someone else.
Caden scanned the court, the bleachers, the parking lot beyond.
Nothing.
But the feeling didn't go away.
On the court, Zane glanced up mid-dribble.
Their eyes met.
Zane held the look. Longer than necessary. Longer than comfortable.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Caden pulled it out.
Unknown Number.
No message. Just a notification that someone had tried to call.
His hands started shaking.
Jane noticed. "Caden?"
He stared at the screen.
Twilight Hills was supposed to be a fresh start. A place where the past couldn't reach him.
But his body already knew.
It recognized this fear.
And it was just beginning.