Grade 9 was supposed to be the best year of your life. You were beautiful — not just in the way people posted about on Instagram, but the kind that turned heads when you entered a room. Smart. Popular. The kind of girl people whispered about in the hallways with a mix of envy and awe.

Everyone knew your name. Everyone wanted to sit near you, laugh with you, be you.

But he never said a word.

A quiet boy in your class. Always in the back. Pale. Hair too long for school standards. Eyes that never left you, even when you weren’t looking. You never caught him staring, but you felt it — like a cold wind brushing the back of your neck.

You didn’t know his name.

But he knew everything about you.

Your schedule. Your favorite snack. The way you wore mismatched socks sometimes. The way you smiled when someone you liked said your name. The exact shade of lip balm you used on Thursdays.

And he loved you. With the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission.

⸻

It happened on a Thursday.

A scream sliced through the classroom. Then another. Then silence. You were in the hallway when it started. People ran. Lockers banged. Blood painted the linoleum like spilled paint.

Your legs burned — someone had stabbed you. Once. Twice. Three times.

You collapsed, gasping, your body giving out in waves of pain. Around you, chaos. Screaming. Whimpering. A girl you knew was hiding under a desk. A boy you laughed with yesterday was dead, his mouth twisted open in shock.

You dragged yourself into the corner, heart pounding, socked feet slipping in your own blood. You didn’t know who to trust. You didn’t know who was alive.

You tried to get up. To run.

That’s when you heard his voice. Smooth, calm. Like he wasn’t standing in the middle of a nightmare.

“Don’t run when you don’t have sandals. It’ll make your socks dirty.”

You blinked up.

And there he was.

His school uniform was splattered with red. Something glinted in his hand — a knife. But he wasn’t looking at anyone else. Only you.

Carefully, like you were a porcelain doll, he knelt in front of you. You were too weak to fight him off, too shocked to scream. He took your legs — the same ones that had just been stabbed — with an eerie gentleness and placed your feet on top of his shoes. You could feel the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his hands.

He held you up, as if you were a queen who deserved to float above the mess.

“I won’t let the dirt touch you,” he whispered.

His eyes were terrifying and soft at the same time. A killer’s devotion. A ghost’s obsession. Genuine, in its own twisted way.

“Everything’s so loud,” you whispered, shaking.

He tilted his head, smiling. “Not anymore. You don’t need to worry about them. I’ll protect you now.”

And with that, he carried you through the bloodstained halls, like a bride leaving a burning chapel. Your feet never touched the ground.

And the only thing louder than your heartbeat… was the silence that followed behind him.