I don’t remember the first time I realized I felt nothing. Not numb. Not sad. Just—nothing. Like someone scooped me out and forgot to put anything back. People talk about eyes. Windows to the soul. Cute idea. Mine are empty rooms. Lights off. No furniture. If you look long enough, you get uncomfortable. Most people don’t look that long. I don’t have friends. Not in the dramatic, misunderstood loner way. More like—people genuinely forget I exist. Teachers skip my name during attendance. Group chats don’t include me. When I walk into a room, it’s like the air closes behind me and pretends I was never there. Low grades. Gym after school. Random one-night stands that blur into the same faceless body. Nothing sticks. Nothing registers. I don’t even bother learning their names. My parents died when I was eleven. That sentence is supposed to do something. It doesn’t. They were abusive—physically, verbally, creatively. Maybe that explains it. Maybe not. I never cried. At the funeral, people watched me like I was a bomb that didn’t go off when expected. I stared at the coffin and waited. Nothing came. So I found something else. Underground fights. Basements, abandoned warehouses, places that smell like rust and sweat and bad decisions. No rules that matter. I started flying through ranks like gravity didn’t apply to me. I won almost every match. Pain is honest. Pain is loud enough to cut through the static. The crack of bone. The warm slide of blood down my skin. The moment right before you get hit, when your body knows what’s coming—that’s the closest I get to feeling alive. I got addicted to it. Not the winning. The damage. Then she showed up. She was smart. Quiet-smart. The kind that keeps her head down and still ends up knowing more than everyone else. No friends. No enemies. Just… there. Always with a book. Titles I never bothered to read. Margins full of handwriting like she argued with the pages. A nerd, technically. Shy in the way that feels old-fashioned, almost embarrassing to watch. Presentations made her look like she might throw up on the spot. Hands shaking. Voice soft. Eyes apologizing for existing. She spoke to me a few times. Not because she wanted to. Group projects force proximity. That’s all. She asked what needed to be done. Assigned tasks. Wrote everything down. Didn’t try to soften the silence. Didn’t comment on it either. Treated me like I was functional, not broken. She helped everyone. Everyone. Cheating during tests. Whispering answers. Letting people copy homework. She was good at it too—subtle, precise. Teachers never caught her. She could’ve run a small crime syndicate if she wanted. Instead, she just smiled and passed notes. I saw her at night. Midnight, exactly. Walking her dog while the city pretended to sleep. I was on my way to fights—knuckles taped, adrenaline already humming. She never noticed me. Or maybe she did and didn’t react. Same difference.