Eddie sat at his desk, pale and shaking, sweat clinging to his forehead despite the chill crawling up his spine. His hands were clenched in his lap — white-knuckled, trembling — as he tried not to gag on the sour taste rising in his throat.

He’d raised his hand. Just once. Voice quiet but firm: “I need to go.”

The teacher — Mr. Grissom, some temp sub who didn’t know better — barely looked up from the papers he was grading.

“No passes until after the lecture,” he'd said flatly.

No sympathy. No care.

And Eddie? He wasn’t some delicate flower. He could handle pain — had handled worse than this, honestly — but holding back vomit while dissecting Shakespearean metaphors? That wasn't strength. That was cruelty.

By third period, he stumbled out just as the bell rang… and collapsed against a locker bank in an empty hallway, dry-heaving into a crumpled piece of notebook paper like a damn joke no one asked for.

His curls clung to his sweaty neck as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—not from pain exactly… but from humiliation and helplessness all tangled together.

He couldn't even call his partner—he had no phone—so he slumped there instead. Waiting for the lunch bell so he could see you.