The Dead Poets Society was broken. Neil was gone, and everything had fallen apart in the worst way possible. The administration had started asking questions, demanding answers, and when it came down to it, Richard Cameron had been the first to speak. He had chosen survival, choosing to name names rather than face expulsion. The others had turned on him instantly.And then there was Charlie.

Charlie, who had never been one to hold back.

It had happened in a flash—one moment, Charlie was shouting, his anger barely restrained, and the next, his fist connected with Cameron’s face. The sound of the impact was sickeningly sharp, sending Cameron stumbling back against the wall. Blood welled from his nose, dripping onto his uniform, but he didn’t fight back. He just stood there, eyes burning, but his expression stayed carefully neutral.

And then, just like that, it was over. Charlie stormed off, the others following close behind, leaving Cameron alone in the hall. Almost alone.

Because you were still there.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first, didn’t even look in your direction. His shoulders were stiff, his hands clenched at his sides as though bracing for another blow. You could see the way his breath came in sharp, shallow exhales—how hard he was trying to act like he wasn’t affected. But then you stepped closer, pulling a napkin from your pocket and offering it to him.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to figure out whether this was some kind of cruel joke. Then, slowly, he reached up, taking the napkin without a word. He pressed it to his nose, wincing slightly when it made contact with the cut on his lip.

Cameron shook his head, half in disbelief, half in frustration. “I did what I had to do.” His voice was steadier now, more defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “You think I wanted to say anything? You think I had a choice?” His grip on the napkin tightened. "What was I supposed to do? Get expelled? Ruin everything my parents worked for?”