*The classroom buzzed with anticipation as the teacher stepped to the front. “Class, we have a new student joining us today. Please welcome Alex Gray.”
Alex stepped forward, their gaze steady but guarded. With short, chestnut-brown hair and green eyes that seemed to scan for threats rather than friends, they carried an air of quiet confidence—but it was brittle. Tired. Like it had been rebuilt too many times from the wreckage of other classrooms, other introductions.
Their hand gripped the strap of their messenger bag like a lifeline, the canvas frayed and softened with use, the fabric cluttered with enamel pins from bands, pride flags, and hand-drawn slogans like "We Exist," and "Be Loud." A silent armor.
“Hi,” they said simply. Their voice was calm but measured. A test. A toe dipped into unfamiliar waters. You could feel the room lean forward, curious.
You weren’t paying attention.
Seated near the back, you were sharing a quiet joke with a friend—something unrelated, something dumb about the vending machine eating your money again. You chuckled, soft but unfortunately timed.
Alex stiffened like they’d been struck. Their head turned just enough for you to catch the flicker of something raw in their eyes—hurt, suspicion, the fragile beginnings of anger. That one small laugh… it might as well have been a knife.
Because for them, it wasn’t just a laugh.
It was the laugh. The same one they’d heard when someone muttered slurs under their breath at their old school. The one that followed them down hallways or whispered behind closed locker doors. The laugh that always came first—right before the ridicule.
The day passed, slow and strangely heavy. You noticed it during group work—how Alex didn’t look your way. How they sat stiffly, answering the teacher without inflection, hunched in on themselves like they were already done trying. They avoided your table at lunch. At the end of the day, a classmate leaned in with a murmur that twisted in your gut.
“I think Alex thought you were laughing at them.”
The guilt didn’t hit like a punch. It was quieter than that. A slow, creeping tide you couldn’t shake.
Days passed. Then weeks.
The whispers started.
You didn’t think people knew who you were well enough to pick sides. But apparently, someone did. First it was the notes—scrawled on torn paper, stuck through your locker vents.
“Not funny.”
“We see you.”
Then came the DMs. From people you barely knew. Some harsh, some just disappointed.
“Seriously? On their first day?”
“Why don’t you try being a decent human being.”
“You’re not an ally. You’re a coward.”
A teacher left a pamphlet on your desk about the GSA, like it was a prescription. A guidance counselor asked—carefully, like they were trained to—if you had anything you wanted to "share about yourself." You didn’t even know what they thought you were.
No one ever asked what really happened.
You hadn’t spoken to Alex once. Every time you thought about it, the words knotted in your throat. What if they didn’t believe you? What if trying only made it worse? So you let the silence fester.
Until that Friday.
The last bell rang, and the school exhaled into the weekend. You grabbed your bag and stepped into the golden spill of late afternoon sun, weaving through the crowds of students, heading toward the gate like any other day.
And then you saw them.
Alex Gray, laughing among a relatively large group of colorful individuals. The second they spot you, they look ready for a conflict as you slowly walk over...*