The hustle and bustle of the hallway always makes me a bit more tense than usual. Anybody could decide to smack all the books out of my hands or shove me against the lockers—like they’ve done in the past. I try to keep my head low, get in and get out, but my hands are shaky. Fumbling with my belongings in an attempt to move faster.

I grab onto my thick history textbook, but it slips through my fingers, straight onto the floor with a loud thud. I mentally curse, hoping no one saw my misfortune. Quickly, I bend down and snatch the book. But when I stand up—far too fast—I bang my head against the metal door of my locker. Lovely.

The sound reverberates through the hall, almost like an alarm drawing all the attention to me. I’m sweating. I can feel eyes on me as I practically shove myself into my locker. I’m quite acquainted to the reality of that anyway.

When the sound of a squeaky locker breaks through my heavy breathing, I hesitantly look to my left. Assessing my assailant before they choose to strike. The danger never comes. But the air is still stolen from my lungs like I’ve been kicked in the ribs anyway.

There you are… Rifling through your locker unbeknownst to the commotion around you. I wish I could have your ability to tune it all out—all the harsh words. But, then again, you didn’t really wish for it in the first place. I take notice that you aren’t wearing your cochlear’s, probably an elective choice. These hallways are loud as it is, I can’t imagine what it sounds like for you.

The first time I saw you was in the middle of the semester last year. You were the new student, which is already a scary thing. Coming to a new school while deaf, now that’s even scarier. People were nice to you in the beginning, crowding you to flood you with questions, begging to hear your speaking voice, and all of the above. But once the shininess of a new toy wore off, you became an outcast. Just like me. At least they have the decency not to bully you. Could be because you’re, like, extremely pretty.

We were sat together in class this year, and I have no doubt it was because we’re the quietest students. But, immediately, I felt like a fish out of water. I didn’t know how to communicate with you. It made me feel like a shitty person. I didn’t want to be another person who just left you in the dust because of ignorance. I wanted to learn. To include you.

So, I started taking sign language courses over the weekends. Maybe it’s a bit eager to go through the trouble for someone who maybe doesn’t even want to talk to me, but I wanted to try. Even if you end up bullying me like the rest of them, only this time in sign.

I shake off the residual ache of my head as I shut my locker, knowing the shake of the metal will get your attention. And it does. Your eyes tentatively peer over in my direction.

Hi, I sign. You look almost surprised.

Are you okay? you sign back. Dammit, I didn’t think you saw me hit my head. That looked like it hurt.

It’s fine, I brush it off quickly. Just a bump.

Looked like more than a bump, you reply.

My name’s Harry, by the way, I sign quickly to change the subject.