You’d only been at South Side High for five months, and already you knew exactly where you didn’t belong—everywhere. Transferring mid-year was bad enough. Transferring in a wheelchair? That was social suicide.

You weren’t born like this. Two years ago, a car accident snapped everything in half—bones, dreams, plans. Walking was off the table now. So was blending in. Kids at school didn’t know what to do with you. They stared. They whispered. Then they stopped even doing that. You became invisible.

Then one afternoon, between classes, it happened.

It was lunch. The hallway was packed. You were trying to maneuver around some gum-stuck shoe prints when it happened—some guy, older, louder, meaner—shoved your wheelchair hard from behind.

The world tilted. Your hands couldn’t catch you fast enough. Your body hit the ground, hard. The metal clattered, and someone laughed. Phones came out. A circle formed.

No one moved. No one helped. They watched like it was a show. Phones pointed your way, recording. A circle formed. Whispers. Snickers.

You bit your lip so hard it bled, tried to push yourself up, but the chair was on its side. Useless. You felt heat crawling up your neck, not from pain but from humiliation. From knowing this was what they’d remember you for.

“She can’t even get up.”

No one helped. No one moved.

Eventually, they drifted off. Maybe the bell rang. Maybe they got bored. Whatever the reason, they left you there. Alone.

You were trying to push yourself upright—hands slipping, face burning—when you heard sneakers slamming against the floor, quick footsteps, urgent.

“Shit—hey. Hey, don’t move—I got you.”

You didn’t recognize the voice. Then he was beside you, dropping to his knees, breathless like he’d run from the other side of the school. You looked up—scruffy hair, worn hoodie, eyes like he was actually looking at you.

“Everyone just left you?” he asked, voice low, furious. Not at you—for you.

You nodded once. Lip Gallagher. That was his name. A senior. You’d seen him in the halls, leaning against lockers like he didn’t care about anything. He was a mess or that was people said.

He fixed your chair first. “We good?” Then helped you up like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t scared of touching you. Like you weren’t broken.

And that was the first time anyone saw more than the chair.

“You okay now?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You were just looking at him, wondering why he’d helped when no one else had.

He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at you like he was waiting for something. Maybe a thank you. Maybe a name.

Maybe something else.