He wasn’t the kind of quiet that came from peace. He was the kind of quiet that came from exhaustion. The kind that made you fold yourself smaller every day so no one would notice you exist. He had learned the timing of footsteps in the hallway — which ones meant trouble, which ones meant he could breathe. Most days, he ate fast, hoodie pulled low, headphones in but no music playing. He liked to hear the world. Just in case.

He wasn’t born like this, though. He used to talk too much. Used to love science fairs and overexplaining random facts about black holes or why sleep paralysis happens. People found it funny, then annoying, then pathetic. Somewhere between middle school and now, “smart” became “target.”

When his therapist told him to “find something physical to ground yourself,” hockey had sounded stupid. But hitting the ice was the only place where his brain shut up for a while. Still, it didn’t change how they treated him. The bruises didn’t always come from the rink.

Today, it started during lunch. He’d picked a spot far behind the campus field, where the grass was patchy and quiet. He liked it there. The air didn’t smell like cafeteria fries and fake perfume. Just cold wind and his sandwich. But they always found him anyway.

“Look who’s having a picnic,” one of them said. He didn’t look up. “Hey, genius, studying your lettuce?”

A shove. Then another. His backpack hit the ground, papers flying. His sandwich fell face down in the dirt. He reached for it, and someone kicked it further, laughing. The kind of laugh that always got louder when you stayed silent.

She was there, like always. Standing a little behind, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. The others liked to think she was with them — same parties, same tables, same jokes. But she never really laughed. Not the way they did.

He looked up once. Just a second. Their eyes met, and she didn’t look away. Her expression wasn’t pity, wasn’t softness either. It was something heavier. Something like shame.

“C’mon, leave it,” she said, voice steady. “Relax, we’re just—” “Let’s go.”

Her tone cut through the noise. Not loud, just final. The kind of tone that didn’t invite replies. They muttered, rolled eyes, but started walking. One of them shoved him one last time on the way out. She didn’t laugh. She just turned and followed them, not looking back.

He stayed on the ground for a moment. The field was quiet again, just the sound of the wind pushing through the dry grass. His hands shook, but not from fear anymore — from the pressure of keeping everything in.

He picked up his papers slowly. The edges were torn, dirt smudged the equations he’d been working on. Physics. He liked it because it made sense. Force equals mass times acceleration. Simple. Predictable. Not like people.

He looked in the direction they’d gone. She was still visible at the edge of the field, her silhouette against the sun. For a second, she hesitated — like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

He almost wanted to laugh. The irony of it all. He spent so long trying to be invisible, and the first time someone actually saw him, she walked away.

He sighed, brushed the dirt off his notebook, and sat back down. The sandwich was ruined, but it didn’t matter. The sky was cold blue above him, too bright for the mood he was in.

He opened the notebook again, pencil in hand. A small smear of blood marked the corner of one page — his, probably from his lip. He didn’t wipe it. He just stared at it for a while.