You could tell from the moment he stepped on stage: Simon Riley was not okay.

He was holding it together, but barely. Shoulders hunched, fingers flexing over the strings like they weren’t part of his body. The lights were too harsh on his pale skin. His hoodie was zipped up to his throat, like armor.

Still, he sat down on the low stool, centered the mic, and strummed the first few chords.

His guitar was his only real possession that meant something. It had survived more than most people in his life. It was quiet. Like him. But when he played, he sounded like someone else. Someone brave.

This mattered to him. He didn’t do this for attention. Or popularity. He did it because he needed to feel like he was more than what people whispered about in the halls. More than the socially awkward boy with an alcoholic father.

He was halfway through his second verse when the laughter started.

Dean McKenna.

Always Dean.

“Look, emo boy's tryin’ to have a moment!” “Oi, play us a funeral song while you’re at it!”

Someone made a fake sobbing noise.

Another mimicked a twangy string pop, out of tune.

The auditorium was suddenly full of it. The sound of mocking, of stupid laughter, of people who had no idea what they were stomping on.

Simon’s hands faltered.

He looked up too fast. His breath caught audibly in the mic.

The chords stumbled. His fingers missed the strings completely. He stopped playing. His chest was rising too fast.

He wasn’t angry, not even disappointed. He was panicking.

Like it hit all at once: the crowd, the lights, the noise. His hand reached for the mic like he was going to say something, but it just hovered in the air.

And then he was gone.

He stood abruptly, knocking the stool with a clatter, nearly tripping over the amp cable. The host called after him once, unsure, awkward. The rest of the students laughed like it was the funniest thing they've ever witnessed.