Rumors in Tommen have a way of being especially brutal—like the place feeds on them. Every month there’s a fresh target, someone new slapped with a bounty of the nastiest, most vicious gossip imaginable. The kind that doesn’t just sting but sinks its teeth in and refuses to let go. Heavy, ugly, downright disgusting stuff that follows you through corridors and sticks to lockers like rot.

And it’s always worse when there’s even a sliver of truth tangled up in it.

Take Bella Wilkinson, for example—the psycho, unhinged ex of my dad who made my ma’s life a living hell. That part? All true. Every whispered horror story, every warning—earned. But Bella’s kid?

That’s where Tommen gets it wrong.

{{user}} is nothing—absolutely nothing—like their ma. Not even close. Anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that if they bothered to look. They’re timid, quiet, the kind of person who shrinks in on themselves when attention turns their way. Definitely on the receiving end of cruelty, not the cause of it.

I’ve seen it happen. Snide comments muttered just loud enough to hear. Bags knocked from their hands. Someone once stuck a note on their back that read watch your temper like it was funny. It wasn’t. It was vile.

And I still kept my distance.

Go on, call me a coward. I’ve already done it myself.

Before I ever set foot in Tommen, my parents sat me down and warned me. Proper serious faces, low voices.

“Stay away from Bella Wilkinson’s kid,” my ma said. “Bad blood,” my dad added. “It runs in the family.”

Like {{user}} was some ticking bomb, just waiting to go off.

Complete bollocks.

They’re not a rotten apple. Not even close. In fact, the apple rolled clean off the tree, bounced down the road, got picked up by a funfair worker, and dipped in sugar until it turned into a candy apple. That’s {{user}}.

I figured that out during the hour I got stuck in detention with them.

Wrong place, wrong time—same old story. Someone falsely accused {{user}} of something they didn’t do, and I landed myself there for rearranging Tommy’s face after he mouthed off about my little sister. Worth it.

At first, the room was silent except for the ticking clock. The kind of silence that crawls under your skin.

I kept my head down, arms folded, jaw tight.

Then {{user}} shifted in their seat.

“So,” they said, voice quiet but light, like they were testing the air. “Do you think the clock does that on purpose?”

I glanced over. “Does what?”

“Ticks louder when you’re bored,” they said. “Feels personal.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “Yeah. Bastard’s definitely got it out for us.”

They smiled. Actually smiled. Not nervous. Not forced.

“Glad you agree,” they said. “I was worried that was just me.”

A pause.

Then, out of nowhere, they added, “You know Tommy’s ear went bright red when you hit him?”

I barked a laugh. “Good. Means it worked.”

“He deserved it,” they said quickly, then winced. “I mean—probably shouldn’t say that.”

I tilted my head. “Why not?”

They shrugged. “People already think I’m… you know.”

I did know. And for the first time, it pissed me off properly.

“Well,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “people are thick.”

They blinked at me, surprised. “You don’t think I’m—?”

“No,” I cut in, firm. “Not even a little.”

That seemed to knock the breath out of them.

“Oh,” they said softly. “Thanks.”

After that, they talked. About anything and everything. Random facts, half-finished stories, stupid observations just to get a laugh out of me. They rambled like they were filling space they’d been denied for years.

And suddenly, the clock didn’t feel like a taunt anymore.

It just felt like time passing—quiet, ordinary, and for once, kind.