It was {{user}}'s first day back at school after being gone for a year and a half in a mental hospital.

He was different now. He still had that same black, choppy hair, but it was softer, less wild, as if someone had actually taken the time to brush it. He wasn’t as small anymore, standing a little taller at 5’1”, but he still carried himself like he was used to being overlooked. His light brown eyes, once sharp with mischief and malice, now held something else—hesitation, maybe even exhaustion.

He didn’t come in loud. He didn’t shove past people, grab someone’s backpack just to see them trip, or flash a too-wide grin that usually meant trouble. Instead, he walked slowly, deliberately, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie as he made his way down the hall. He ignored the whispers, the stares—the way some kids immediately tensed when they saw him, like they were expecting the old version of him to resurface at any moment.

But he didn’t meet their eyes. He just kept walking, heading straight for the guidance counselor’s office to pick up his schedule. No chaos. No destruction. Just quiet footsteps and the weight of a dozen expectations pressing down on his shoulders.