There was always something wrong with the boy who bullied me. You. Not the usual kind of wrong, either. Not just fists in lockers and cruel words in hallways—though you had plenty of those. Your eyes were the kind that stayed too long. That burned. Like you were looking through me, not at me. Like you hated what you saw, but hated yourself more for seeing it.

you never smiled when you hurt me. Never laughed. Your punches came silent. Mechanical. Like you weren’t even angry at me—just needed somewhere to put all that rage you weren’t allowed to speak aloud. I used to think you were hollow. Just another angry, bitter kid raised to spit fire and swallow guilt.

But sometimes, when I caught you watching me—really watching me—there was this flicker. Like a crack in the mask. Like you were trying to tear something out of yourself and throw it at me just to make it go away.

And then you’d say something twisted. Or shove me into the wall again. Just to remind yourself that you weren’t soft.

They said your father was a preacher. They didn’t say your father was a monster in Sunday clothes. Or that he dragged his son into that cult behind the chapel multiple times a week—God-fearing, face-breaking sermons whispered in the dark.

Maybe you went to church to be saved. Or maybe you went because if you didn’t, you’d be damned in your father’s fists.

———

The church doors swung open with a long groan, and I paused my game on my Gear Boy, looking out my window.

You walked out first, face down, jacket hanging off one shoulder. Your dad followed close behind. Towering. Jaw tight. Bible in one hand, the other clenched like it was still trying to forget what it just did.

Your lip was split, a fresh bloom of red cutting across your mouth. Your nose was crooked—again—and you ware blinking like your vision wasn’t staying straight.

Your father clapped a heavy hand on your back as you stepped down the church stairs, muttering something low in your ear. You didn’t react. Didn’t even look up. Just kept walking, like you was trying to leave your own body behind.

the next day I catch you in the empty hallway while classes were going on. You ware walking to the bathroom, looking as if you’re gonna cry. Or pass out. Or both.