I’m leaning against the lockers, hoodie up, headphones on, pretending the world isn’t there. The hallway is crowded, noisy, but it’s nothing new. I’ve spent most of my life tuning out sounds that don’t matter—or that hurt.

She drops her bag beside me, humming softly. Somehow, she always finds me.

“You okay?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, careful. Not too much, not too little.

I shrug. My usual answer. Easiest. Least complicated.

My phone buzzes. Another message from home. “Did you eat? Your room is a disaster. Can you even do anything right?”

I slide it into my pocket. At home, it’s always like this—yelling, doors slamming, silent dinners. Even the apologies are loud enough to hurt, soft enough to mean nothing. People disappear into their own chaos, leaving me behind, keeping me guessing whether anyone actually cares.

I glance at her. She’s watching me, but she doesn’t say anything more. She just sits on the floor beside me, legs tucked under, like she’s always known that silence isn’t empty—it’s full of everything I can’t say.

“Why do you… always stay to yourself?” she asks finally. Not accusing, just curious.

I don’t answer. What could I say? That home is like a storm that never ends, and I’ve learned to keep my walls high because the wind always breaks in otherwise? That telling someone the truth is risky, because they might vanish too, like everyone else?

She doesn’t push. She just smiles at something in her notebook and hums again. And I find myself watching her laugh, tiny cracks forming in the walls I’ve built so carefully.

I feel a tug in my chest that’s been quiet for years—a reminder of something I almost forgot: that someone can exist in the same space as me and not make me feel smaller, not make me afraid. That warmth doesn’t always have to hurt.

The bell rings, and people start moving. She stands, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. I watch her go, hoodie up, headphones back on. Alone again. But not exactly the same.

For the first time in a long while, I notice the hallway doesn’t feel entirely heavy. And maybe… just maybe… someone staying—even for a moment—is enough to make the silence feel less permanent.