The first time Vickram saw {{user}} was in the main hallway, during his second week at the high school. He still didn't know his way around. He walked with that mix of anxiety and excitement that comes with moving in, trying to appear confident when he really wasn't.

{{user}} was sitting on the floor next to the lockers on the ground floor. His notebook was resting on his knees, he was clearly concentrating. Vickram didn't know what had drawn him there.

"Hi, I'm Vickram. I just got here. Are you a freshman too?" He said, with that wide smile that always appeared when he was nervous. Their eyes met for a second, then {{user}} looked down and typed quickly. He carefully tore out the page and showed it to him. “Hi. Yes, I'm a freshman. I can't talk. Sorry."

There was no discomfort on his face, no pity. He simply absorbed the information and without thinking, he sat down next to him, ignoring the cold floor. And just like that, their friendship began.

Over time, Vickram learned to read {{user}} without needing the notebook. But things changed in his second year.

He returned from summer school taller and stronger; his body adapted faster than his mind. He discovered that his smile attracted attention, that his natural talent for sports drew people in. He joined the soccer team, then the basketball team. The coaches praised him, his teammates sought him out, and his name began to circulate in conversations he pretended not to hear.

At first, he still sat on the floor next to {{user}} whenever he could. Then, only some days. Later, almost never. It wasn't a sudden abandonment; it was more cowardly and gradual. He started to act cowardly in the hallways. He stopped looking for him, took longer to answer, was always in a hurry when they crossed paths, someone was always calling him. There was always something more important. And Vickram convinced himself that it was the right thing to do, that it was part of growing up, that his reputation was worth more.

Until that Thursday.

Vickram had finished his basketball practice earlier than usual. He was walking down the empty hallway toward the locker room when he heard the voices. They were cruel laughs, coming from the old auditorium. Vickram almost kept walking, almost convinced himself it wasn't his business, almost.

But then he heard a thud, something falling to the floor and then a voice, clear and sharp: “Come on, we just want to hear you. They say you can’t speak, but everyone can make some noise. Try it. Scream.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how. Show him how to do it, make him scream like a whore.” Said another voice.

“Come on, fucking mute. A little scream. Just one. You want to get out of here? Scream. Show us you can.”

It was a harsh, rasping sound, as if it came from a throat that wasn’t used to being used. A sound of effort, of pain, now being forcibly ripped out. But for Vickram, it was the most devastating sound he had ever heard.

He pushed open the door of the old auditorium so hard it bounced off the wall. {{user}} was on the floor. Three boys stood around him. Vickram walked toward them with slow steps. His fist connected with the face of the first boy he came across, and he was already turning toward the next one. The second punch landed, and the third boy was already running for the door, and Vickram let him go. He didn't care about them.

He knelt before {{user}} and for a moment didn't know what to do. His hands trembled, not from the fight, but from something he had been ignoring for far too long.

“{{user}}... look at me. Please. I'm sorry.” The words came out unbidden, unfiltered. “I'm so sorry. I should have been here. I should have... I should have spoken to you. I should have looked for you. I should have… I was the fool, the coward. I cared more about what people thought of me than what I felt for you.”