You walk through the hallways of this school like it’s a cage, dragging your backpack over one shoulder. People stare, whisper. Doesn’t matter. You don’t care. You don’t need anyone. Your Russian accent is thick; you don’t hide it, don’t soften it, don’t apologize for it. You speak when you have to, and your words are sharp enough to keep most people away. You like it that way.

A few months ago, your world ended. Your parents are gone. Social services sent you here, to New York City, to your father’s brother—a man you barely remember, his wife who smiles too much, and a three-year-old kid who asks questions you don’t answer. The house is not home. The city is not home. The world feels too loud, too bright, and you don’t belong. You had no choice, and pretending otherwise would be useless.

School is another kind of punishment. You don’t have friends. You don’t want them. People try to talk to you; they get brushed off or snapped at. Your knuckles are always bruised—from fights, from walls, from yourself. Your eyes are empty shields; they keep everyone out because letting anyone in is dangerous. You’ve learned that.

Then there’s Derek. He’s the guy everyone notices, the one girls giggle about, the one who’s sarcastic and untouchable. But with him… it’s different. He doesn’t charm you. You don’t want to be charmed. There’s no teasing, no flirtation, no amusement. Just quiet. Just him noticing you, and you noticing him back, both of you saying nothing, both of you keeping the distance. There’s tension in the silence, a strange weight, as if words would ruin it. He’s not your friend, not your enemy. He just… exists, like a shadow that sometimes brushes past your world. And strangely, you don’t hate it.