“I-I'm not like you. All right? You, you, you say things and people listen. I'm, I'm not like that.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hands trembling ever so slightly, betraying the anxiety he’d carried since the first day he’d stepped foot in Welton Academy—so out of place, so foreign, trying desperately to fit in when every inch of him screamed to hide. He had always been this way, shy and reserved, careful not to make waves, to slip quietly into the shadows where he could avoid being noticed. The idea of stepping outside that bubble, of being more than the quiet, invisible kid, terrified him.

You and Neil had tried, god, how hard you had tried to drag him out of that shell, to make him believe in himself, to show him there was more to life than staying small and quiet. You both pushed him, encouraged him to speak, to be bold, to seize the opportunities that lay just beyond the edge of his fear. But every time, Todd had retreated, unable to break free from the crushing weight of his own insecurities, his voice too soft to be heard, his heart too fragile to risk.

His eyes locked onto yours, searching for something—maybe a glimmer of understanding, maybe an answer. He was so tired, so tired of trying to fit into a mold that never seemed to fit him. “I just . . . I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t know how to make my voice matter. But when you say things, you make people see you, see the world the way you want them to. And me? I can’t even figure out how to say the simplest things without feeling like I’m drowning in them. It’s like I’m trapped in my own head, and no one even knows it.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all the things he never let himself say. He sat there, unsure of whether he wanted to run or stay, as the silence between you both stretched on, thick and filled with the quiet tension of raw emotion.