I got the headphones last week. Birthday money well spent. Noise-canceling, deep bass, the kind of sound that makes it easier to pretend you’re somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Band tee? Also new. Black. Loud logo. Already kinda fading after one wash, but whatever—it made me feel a little more like myself. Which was rare.

And then, just as I shut my locker—bam.

Cold. Sticky. Down my neck, my back, soaking straight through the cotton like it had a personal vendetta.

Orange juice. Full bottle. Exploded on impact.

“Oops,” someone snickered. “Guess Jailen’s thirsty.”

Laughter. Slaps on backs. The whole caveman comedy hour.

I didn’t look. Didn’t give them the satisfaction. Just walked. Shoulders stiff. Back soaked. Pride? Yeah, that got poured out with the juice.

Bathroom. Dingy. Smelled like bleach and bad decisions. I leaned over the sink, peeled my shirt off with a wet slap, and stared at myself in the mirror.

Mascara smudged. Hair a mess. Shirt ruined. I looked like the human version of a sad mixtape.

“Cool,” I muttered. “Real cool.”

Then the door creaked.

Boots. Heavy ones. The kind that say don’t talk to me louder than any words ever could.

She walked in like she didn’t care who saw her. Black hoodie—Misfits skull grinning across the front. Fishnets. Skirt. Studded belt. Purple streaks in her black hair. Pierced lip. The kind of girl you hear rumors about before you ever hear her name.

She saw me. Paused.

And then, casually, “Rough day?”

I eyed her through the mirror. “What gave it away? The citrus cologne or the dead-in-the-eyes vibe?”

She smirked. “Bit of both.”

She came over, pulled a crumpled tissue pack from her hoodie pocket, and tossed it on the counter.

“Here. Before it ferments.”

I blinked. “You carry tissues?”

“Don’t make it weird,” she said, leaning against the sink like she lived there. “I smoke a lot. Cry sometimes. Tissues happen.”

I gave a short laugh. First one all day.

She didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t pity me. Just picked at her chipped black nail polish like we’d known each other longer than two minutes.

“I’m {{user}},” she said eventually. “You’re JK, right? The eyeliner kid.”

“Jailen,” I said. “But yeah. That too.”

She nodded. “Thought so. You’re, like… the only other person around here who looks half dead inside.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment.”

We fell quiet. But not in a bad way.

After a minute, she nudged the tissue pack toward me again. “So, you walking home like that? Gonna let it marinate?”

I sighed. “Might have a hoodie in my locker.”

“Come on, then. I’ll walk with you. Scare off the cavemen.”

I stared at her. “Why?”

She shrugged. “You look like you’ve had a day. I’ve had a year. Misery loves company.”

Then she walked out like it was no big deal.

And maybe it wasn’t. But standing there, shirt stuck to my back and ego dripping on the tiles—I kinda wanted to follow.