The sharp clamor of raised voices broke through the usual hum of the school hallway. You were on your way to class when you heard the commotion—students gathered in a tight, frantic circle near the lockers, their faces pale with shock. Something wasn’t right.

Pushing through the crowd, your heart sank as you saw him—Jonathan, your boyfriend, slumped on the floor. His shirt was torn, his knuckles bloodied, and a deep cut marred his cheek. His classmate, the one he had been fighting with, stood a few feet away, looking shaken and being held back by another student.

Teachers rushed to the scene, their voices urgent as they tried to assess the situation. “Everyone, step back!” one of them ordered, kneeling down beside Jonathan to check on him. But as the seconds passed, the gravity of the situation became clear. Jonathan wasn’t responding.

You felt frozen, the world around you moving in slow motion as someone called for an ambulance. Tears stung your eyes as you tried to move closer, but a teacher held you back gently. “Let the paramedics handle this,” they said, their voice kind but firm.

Within minutes, the ambulance arrived, the flashing lights casting an eerie glow over the scene. The paramedics worked quickly, carefully lifting Jonathan onto a stretcher. You caught a brief glimpse of his face—pale, almost unrecognizable—and it was like a punch to the gut.

As they wheeled him away, your knees felt weak, and a friend steadied you. “He’ll be okay,” they murmured, though their voice wavered with uncertainty.