She was new. Shy. The kind of quiet that makes everyone curious.

Everyone wanted to be nice, to be the first to talk to her. But she sat next to me. Me.

“Hi. Is this seat taken?” “It is now,” I said.

She laughed — soft and light, like her world had no sharp edges.

I decided in that moment: I’d never let anyone else touch her.

It started small. Helping her with classwork, walking her to the gate after school, pretending we were just becoming close.

She thought it was friendship. I let her think that.

Then others started creeping in. Nicknames. Inside jokes. Someone left candy on her desk. Someone else asked if she wanted to hang out.

“Are you going?” I asked. “Maybe,” she said. “Just to try something new.”

I watched her fingers play with the candy wrapper. And I made a list.

The girl tripped down the stairs the next day. The boy’s backpack got soaked in paint. She said, “Weird… things have been kind of crazy lately.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’m here with you.”

She smiled.

Like that was a good thing.

Like she didn’t know what it meant.

No one touches what’s mine.

Not anymore.