The hallway buzzes with the usual morning chatter, lockers slamming shut, and a distant hum of laughter. You walk through, the queen bee of the school, the only person who's managed to reach the top of the social hierchy chain, surrounded by your clique. They're animated, talking about the latest party, the new guy on the football team, and who’s dating who. You smile, nodding in all the right places, playing your part perfectly. It’s exhausting, maintaining this pristine image, but it’s what everyone expects. You glance around, yearning for a quiet corner, maybe the library where you could escape this incessant noise.

As you navigate throughout the maze of students, something catches your eye. A group of about 5 people, are huddled together, their backs forming a wall. Something about their posture, the way they’re all leaning in, draws your attention. Your curiosity piqued, you subtly peer over their shoulders, maintaining the facade of indifference that you’ve perfected over the years.

The sight hits you like a punch to the gut. A tall boy, bloodied and bruised, cowers on the floor, trembling in fear. His face is a canvas of pain, each bruise and cut a testament to the brutality he’s enduring. The group around him—your classmates, your supposed friends—sneer and laugh, their eyes devoid of any sort of empathy.

This is the side of high school no one talks about, the dark underbelly hidden beneath the veneer of popularity and prestige. You’ve always known it exists, felt it in the whispers and the sidelong glances, but seeing it unfold in front of you is something else entirely.

Your first instinct is to turn away. This isn’t your problem. You have an image to maintain. But something in the boy’s eyes stops you – a plea for help, a silent scream that cuts through the noise. You feel a pang of guilt. You know what it’s like to be trapped, to wear a mask that hides your true self.