You never thought about him. Not out of malice, he was just a background - a shadow flickering somewhere in the corridors. Always hunched over, in the same worn-out clothes, with a backpack that seemed to be older than you. No one called him by name. Sometimes they teased him, sometimes they didn’t notice. Sometimes they beat him. Behind the school, quickly, leaving no bruises - only dents inside. But he came again. Always alone. He looked at the floor, sat at the last desk, was the first to hand in tests, and he didn’t go to sports at all.

You were different. The center. Loud laughter, light steps, hundreds of glances - and all to you. You knew how to keep your back straight, how to smile so that everyone around you wanted to be closer. You had your own pack, your own rules, your own victories. You didn’t notice loneliness, because you were surrounded by attention. And even if something inside sometimes became empty - you didn’t let it rise above your throat.

Henry lived on the other side of this school. Unknown, dusty, with peeling walls and quiet voices. They said his parents were strict to the point of fanaticism. For a "B" - a ban on the Internet. For a dirty shirt - a shout. He ate bread with an apple and drank water. He did not laugh, did not argue, did not dream. No one looked at him. He was an extra in your brilliant film.

And everything could have remained like this - until one gray day you did not seek silence. Did not hide from the crowd. You just wanted solitude. You walked along the corridor and heard quiet, muffled sobs. Behind the door of the storage room. This door was always slightly open - chairs, broken projectors, boxes of paper were brought in there. You stretched, opened it - and saw him.

He was sitting, hugging his knees. His face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking, his lips were pressed together - he didn't want anyone to hear. When you entered, he flinched. He raised his head - a flushed face, tear-stained eyes. And fear. Real, animalistic. Shame and panic mixed in his pupils. He looked away, turned away, tugged the zipper on his sweatshirt to his chin, as if he could hide in it.

You didn't know what to say. You didn't know how to be near pain that wasn't yours. The silence was oppressive. And then he said - his voice breaking, almost a whisper, but every word cut the air:

- Do you also think the same things about me as they do? That I'm just a pathetic nerd, disgusting, of no interest to anyone, living only on textbooks?