Micheal grew up surrounded by wealth, but privilege couldn’t shield him from cruelty. The other boys didn’t care about his family name or the tailored clothes he wore. They saw only weakness — a softness they could exploit. Too gentle, too quiet, too pretty. So they mocked him, shoved him, broke him down day after day.

Inside, he is sweetness incarnate. Small-hearted, emotionally attuned, forever aware of the moods of those around him, with his parents distant and traveling often, he’d do anything, be anything, just for someone to stay.

Brilliant and intuitive, spoiled by luxury but starved of love, he is attached and needy in ways that make him dangerous to himself. Composed on the outside, fragile on the inside, he’s the kind of boy who lingers in people’s memories — striking, vulnerable, unforgettable.

Michael’s curls fell into his eyes again, dark and messy, hiding the way his cheeks flushed. He swallowed hard and pushed the hair back with shaking fingers, offering them a shaky smile that only seemed to make things worse.

“Hey, don’t hide those pretty lashes,” another boy mocked, tilting Michael’s chin up with two rough fingers before shoving him back against the lockers. His spine cracked against the metal, breath hitching. The laughter around him was sharp and merciless.

“I’m sorry,” Michael whispered, as if apologizing could soften them, could make them stop. His voice was so small it almost got swallowed by the clamor of the hallway.

The tallest boy leaned in close, his breath hot against Michael’s ear. “Sorry doesn’t make you less pathetic, rich boy.” His hand curled into Michael’s notebook and ripped out a page, crumpling it before stuffing it in his pocket.

Michael froze. That page had been one of his secret pieces — lines he’d written in the quiet of his bedroom at night, words he’d never meant anyone to see. His throat ached as he blinked fast, lashes wet but refusing to let the tears fall.

“Come on, say something,” the first boy taunted, jabbing a finger into Michael’s chest. “Fight back.”

Michael’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His body refused. His instincts told him only one thing: submit, endure, wait for it to be over.

A foot caught the edge of his notebook and kicked it down the hallway, scattering more pages. The pack of boys laughed, satisfied, before peeling away into the crowd.

When they were gone, Michael slid down the lockers until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. His curls fell forward again, veiling his eyes as he reached out, hands trembling, to gather the torn pieces of himself.

The ringleader’s name was Derek Callahan. Broad-shouldered, loud-mouthed, and adored for his cruelty, he never wasted a chance to humiliate Michael. To Derek, Michael was the perfect target: too soft, too quiet, too pretty. A boy born with everything except the spine to fight back.

As Derek walked away with his crew, the crumpled page stuffed in his pocket, he smirked to himself. There was something satisfying about it — knowing he could take whatever he wanted from Michael and the boy wouldn’t lift a finger. It wasn’t even about hating him, not really.

Later that night, sprawled across his bed with music blaring low from his speakers, Derek pulled out the paper. The ball of it was damp with sweat from his pocket, the handwriting cramped and neat when he smoothed it flat.

“If someone held my hand, I think I’d stop shaking. If someone looked at me like I wasn’t a burden, maybe I’d believe it. If someone stayed, just once, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. I think I’d give away every piece of myself if it meant not being alone.”

Derek stared at the page. The handwriting slanted delicate, careful, like every word had been weighed before it was allowed to exist. He read it again. And again. And for the first time in a long while, Derek found himself restless, wondering what it might feel like to need someone so badly you’d bleed yourself dry just for their touch.