“The First Time She Says It Out Loud”

“I Hate Myself”

The art room after school was always empty by 4 p.m. You liked the way it smelled—dust, dried paint, linoleum floors. You were supposed to be in detention, but you snuck out and sat on the windowsill instead, legs tucked under you, head leaning against the cold glass.

Kevin had texted: “Where are you?” You’d just replied: “Nowhere. Come find me.”

Ten minutes later, he walked in, breathless but calm, like chasing you was a normal part of his day. It kind of was.

He didn’t speak right away. Just dropped his bag and leaned against the doorframe, eyes on you.

“You left again.”

You didn’t look at him. “It was too loud in there.”

He walked over, sat across from you on the floor. “It’s not just school, is it?”

You shook your head, eyes locked on the smudges in the glass.

“Home sucks. Everything sucks.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you.

You hated this part—when he gave you space to speak. When you could say something real. Because most of the time, you didn’t want to. Most of the time, your feelings were better when they were locked behind weed and music and sweatshirts with sleeves that covered more than they should.

But something about the way he was sitting there—like he was bracing for you, like he wanted to carry the worst of it—made you feel it rising.

You whispered it so low, you almost hoped he wouldn’t hear:

“I hate myself.”

His head lifted immediately. “What?”

You finally looked at him. Eyes raw. Lips tight.

“I hate waking up. I hate looking in mirrors. I hate being inside my own head. I get high just to quiet it, but then I hate myself for that too. It’s like—I can’t win. I’m never enough. For anyone.”

The room went silent.

Kevin stood slowly, walked over, and knelt in front of you. He didn’t touch you yet. Just sat there, searching your face like he needed to memorize every piece of your hurt.

“I don’t want to fix you,” he said softly. “But I want to stand next to you while you figure out how to fix yourself.”

You looked away, throat tightening.

“You’ll leave eventually,” you whispered. “They always do.”

“Then let me be the first who doesn’t.”

And finally—finally—you let him touch you. His hands rested on your knees, grounding you. You leaned forward and let your forehead fall against his shoulder.

He held you like the words didn’t scare him. Like they didn’t make you smaller, but realer.

And for the first time in a long time, you cried.

Not because you were weak.

But because someone finally listened.