The day had started like any other. You were running late for your first class, fumbling with your backpack while trying to balance a coffee cup and the stack of notebooks you were carrying. Your shoes squeaked against the wet tiles of the hallway as students shouted about tests, gossip, and who had stolen whose hoodie. Someone shoved past you, muttering something about “crazy cafeteria food,” and you almost dropped your coffee.

By second period, you’d resigned yourself to the monotony. Mrs. Carlisle lectured about photosynthesis with her dramatic hand gestures, and half the class doodledabsentmindedly in their notebooks. You kept sneaking glances at Graham Eaton, who sat a few rows ahead, headphones tucked in, scribbling in a sketchbook. The bell rang before you could make any attempt at conversation, and everyone spilled into the hall like a tide.

Lunchtime was chaos. Graham didn’t eat at the cafeteria; instead, she wandered toward the small courtyard behind the library, sketching what looked like a twisted skyline, rain-slicked and abstract. You were tempted to follow, but friends called, and you got swept into the noise of your usual table. Random jokes flew, someone dropped a sandwich, and you laughed harder than you should have at a pun no one else got.PE later was worse. Someone tripped over their own feet, another twisted an ankle, and Graham—ever the quiet, unassuming one—was shoved into a corner by some jerk trying to get a laugh. You remembered seeing it happen, the small flicker of defiance in her eyes, and the brief moment of pride when she pushed back, not letting him get away with it. Little did you know, that act of standing up for herself would cost her later.

Tonight, walking home, the streets were quiet. The sky was overcast, and a cold wind swept down the street, rustling trash cans and flapping posters on the walls. You walked past the corner store, noticing a guy jugglingoranges awkwardly and swearing under his breath. You smiled slightly at the randomness—life still had these absurd little pockets of normalcy.

But then you noticed them: some kids from school, laughing too loudly, their hands red and smeared. You froze. They were yelling—“Lesbian!”—their voices carrying down the street like knives.

Your heart dropped. You turned the corner into the alley instinctively, and there she was. Graham Eaton. On the wet asphalt, beaten and bruised, her glasses crooked, blood running down her cheek. She was shaking, her chest rising and falling fast. You knew immediately. Yesterday, during PE, she haddefended herself—and this was the price.

“Graham!” you called, rushing to her side. She looked up at you, eyes wide, panic mingled with shame. “Hey… hey, it’s me. I got you.”

She tried to push you away at first, weak punches swinging, voice hoarse. “I—don’t—” she stammered, “I don’t need—”

“Shhh,” you interrupted gently but firmly, wrapping an arm under her shoulders and another under her knees when she tried to slump down. “Her resistance faltered as she realized you weren’t going to let go. The tension in her body slowly unwound as you lifted her carefully, carrying her toward your place. The alley reeked of wet concrete and trash, and the cold made her shiver against you.

Once home, you guided her to the bathroom. The water ran warm, steam curling around the small space. You cleaned the cuts on her face, gently dabbing at the bruises, applying antiseptic with careful hands. She flinched, muttered a curse here and there, but didn’t argue anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered finally, voice breaking, eyes down. “I didn’t mean… I just—”“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said softly, holding her hands as she finally looked up. “You defended yourself. You stood up. And no one should get hurt for that. Not you.”

She blinked, swallowing hard, tears mixing with the water on her face. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For… you know… caring.”