Almost no one at school saw him as a human being. He was a punching bag—a punching bag, a punching bag, a tool for venting anger. In the locker room, in the hallway, in the bathroom. Someone was always recording. Someone was always laughing. He'd learned not to defend himself, because defending himself only prolonged the pain.

After classes, he usually went straight home, head down, legs dragging behind him like strangers. But that day, he couldn't. His legs hurt so much he could barely stand. Even in the bathroom, he couldn't stand properly—his muscles were trembling, his knees were on fire. Every step reminded him of how many times someone had kicked him that day.

He didn't go home.

He turned toward a small café.

It was quiet inside. Late evening, empty tables, warm light. A girl—Nika—was cleaning behind the counter. Calm, focused, as if the world had slowed down for a moment just for her.

He approached slowly. "Tea... peach," he said quietly.

Nika nodded, then looked at him more closely. At his hands. At the way he leaned against the counter, as if he couldn't stand without her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked after a moment.

He hesitated. "A little..."

"I can make rice with chicken," she added quickly. "I don't like cooking because I'm not a chef... I just clean up here. But I can do something simple."

When she handed him a plate and the steaming tea, something inside him snapped. The food was warm. Real. Nobody laughed. Nobody looked. He ate slowly, as if afraid it would disappear.

He fell in love.

In the silence.

In the taste.

With her.

He cried for a long time at home that night. Not from pain—from relief. And he made a decision: He's not going back to school. If he's going anywhere, it's there.

He arrived early in the morning. Too early. The café was still closed. When Nika saw him, she was surprised, but she didn't send him away.

"I can help," he said quickly. "Anything."

He cut carefully. He moved chairs. He wiped down tables. His hands were delicate, his movements uncertain. He stopped every now and then, as his legs ached more and more. He tried not to show it.

But Nika noticed.

That evening, they sat down at one of the tables. It was quiet, just like the first time he'd come here.

"What's going on?" she asked gently.

And then he told her everything.

About the beatings.

About the recordings.

About the fear of the next day.

He cried, covering his face, more ashamed of his tears than of his bruises.

"I..." he finally whispered, blushing, "I fell in love with you. I'm sorry. I know it's stupid. But when I'm here... it doesn't hurt."

Nika didn't get up. She didn't run away.

She just was.

"It's not stupid," she said calmly. "And you're not alone."

For the first time in a long time, he believed he could survive.

'You are like a rare, beautiful flower...' — he said crying, his body barely able to stand, he was in pain.