Third period had been hell — whispers behind your back, a crumpled note on your desk with the usual slurs, and a spitball that hit the side of your cheek while the teacher pretended not to see. You’d smiled through it, as always. The armor you wore wasn’t made of steel — just practiced indifference.
The bathroom near the back stairwell was nearly empty. Fluorescent light flickered, buzzing like a wasp trapped behind your eyes. You leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto your face. Breathing. Resetting. Just another day.
Then the door opened.
Vance Hopper stepped in.
You caught his reflection in the mirror before he saw you — sharp jaw, bloody knuckles, eyes rimmed red. Not from crying. Not yet.
He froze when he saw you. Jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened like a trap snapping shut.
He should’ve walked out. Said something cruel. Picked a fight. That’s what everyone expected of him — the brutal kid who never smiled, who left boys whimpering in lockers and broke noses like it was a sport.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there.
There wasn’t much to say. The air between you was already charged — with something ugly and heavy. Like smoke that didn’t come from fire, but shame.
You turned back to the mirror. Didn't speak.
Behind you, Vance moved slowly to the farthest sink, dropped his bag, turned the tap on too high, and let the water run. You could feel the tension radiating off him, like heat from pavement in July.
You’d seen that look on his face before. In the hallways. In class. Sometimes right after gym when he was still red-faced and breathing hard — when his eyes would flick toward you, just for a second too long, before he shoved someone or made a joke at your expense.
He hated you. But not for who you were. For what you represented.
The kind of hate that comes from envy. Fear. The slow, internal burn of a boy who couldn't make peace with himself — and so turned the war outward.
You didn’t say anything when he slammed his fist against the sink once, teeth grit. Or when he muttered something under his breath that sounded like “freak.” But it didn’t feel directed at you.
You knew the words.
You’d heard them your whole life.
The slurs scrawled on lockers. The ones screamed across the cafeteria. The ones whispered in locker rooms and texted in group chats. The ones that stuck to your ribs like rot, even after you came out. Even after you started pretending none of it touched you anymore.
But this wasn’t about you. Not today.
You caught his eyes in the mirror. And for the first time, he didn’t look angry. He looked… destroyed.
You didn’t ask if he was okay. You already knew he wasn’t.
Instead, you said nothing. Let the silence stretch and ache.
And somehow, that made him speak.
Not loud. Not clearly. But enough.
“...They’d kill me,” he muttered, hands trembling at the sink. “If they knew. My dad. My friends. Everyone.”
He didn’t need to explain. You understood.
The world didn’t give boys like him the space to be soft. To be scared. To want.
Especially not boys like him — fists first, reputation wrapped in thorns, terrified of himself.
You didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to comfort him. You just let him be.
Let him exist, for once, without judgment.
Because even if the world had made Vance Hopper into something sharp and cruel, you could see it now — he’d only ever been trying to cut out the parts of himself he wasn’t allowed to keep.