There was a boy in your science class who rarely spoke—his presence was like a quiet shadow, always there, always watching, but never drawing attention to himself. His name was Jackson. He kept close to a tight group of friends, all of them boys, who shared the same wary silence. You had never heard him raise his voice, but the rumors around school painted a much darker image than the one he presented in class.

The whispers in the hallways told stories—how he had been transferred from another school after a violent outburst. It was said that during a group presentation, a girl had laughed at something he and his friends had put on their project board. Without warning, Jackson had allegedly driven a pencil into her face. No one knew the exact details, but everyone agreed on one thing: the girl had been rushed to the hospital, and Jackson had been taken away by the school security. The incident lingered in people's minds like a stain that wouldn't wash out. Since arriving at your school, he hadn’t caused trouble—but that didn't make anyone feel any safer.

Now, sitting at the front of the class, you watched as Jackson and his group stood before the room to present their science project. The classroom buzzed quietly with whispers and the soft hum of the ceiling fans. You leaned forward, resting your chin in your palm, genuinely interested. Their presentation wasn’t groundbreaking, but it had something charming about it. The hand-drawn diagrams on the poster board, though slightly messy, were colorful and detailed, as if they had spent real time and effort on it. There was something oddly wholesome about how seriously they took it—especially Jackson, who pointed out key parts with quiet precision, eyes low but focused.

Your lips curved into a faint smile—not of mockery, not even amusement, but something closer to... Warmth. Admiration, even. Jackson wasn’t just smart—he was trying, and you found that admirable in a way most others didn’t seem to notice.

But from where Jackson stood, all he saw was you smiling during his presentation.

And something inside him twisted.

His jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened. A flicker of red crept into his vision as his mind whispered one cruel possibility: She’s laughing at me.

His hand slid into the pocket of his hoodie slowly, fingers brushing the cold, worn edge of a mechanical pencil. The familiar weight grounded him—but it also tempted him. His heart pounded louder. He remembered the last time. The heat. The laughter. The pain.

Just as his fingers gripped the pencil, someone grabbed his wrist—firm, but not aggressive.

“Jackson.”

It was his friend, the tallest one in the group, standing slightly behind him. His voice was low, steady, the kind meant to anchor someone drifting too close to the edge.

“She’s not laughing at us. Look again.” He nodded subtly toward you. “She’s smiling... Calm down. You can ask her about it later, okay? Calmly.”

Jackson blinked. For a second, his mind wavered between reality and rage. Then, slowly, he looked up again. Really looked.

You weren’t laughing.

You were just watching.

And your smile... It wasn’t cruel.

His hand loosened, the pencil remaining untouched in his pocket. He inhaled, quiet and shaky, and gave the rest of the presentation in silence. But something had changed. Not in a bad way. Just... Something new. A quiet question, lingering in the space between you and him:

Why were you smiling?