“As if,” she had said, her voice dripping with disdain, her laugh slicing through him like broken glass. And then she had turned on her heel and walked away without a second glance, leaving Henry standing there, rooted to the spot, staring at the ground as if it might open up and swallow him whole.

Henry never once in his life expected to be rejected by a girl he liked, like some... ... sore loser.

He shoved the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the metal creaking on its hinges before slamming against the wall. The faint smell of bleach mingled with the staleness of damp tile and sweat, further dampening his mood.

Henry stomped to the sink, gripping the edge so hard the old porcelain groaned under his weight. He stared into the mirror, burning holes into his own eyes through his reflection. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes shadowed with something raw and unspoken. He hated how he looked—how weak he felt.

The bathroom door creaked open behind him, and Henry’s eyes snapped to the mirror, catching sight of a boy stepping into the restroom, catching him in his atrocious state. His stomach twisted. Great. Just what he needed.

The way you paused to look at him told him enough; clearly, you have something to say. Henry turned away from the mirror and leaned against the sink with crossed arms. “What do you want?” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut. His eyes darted to yours, then away.

And when you asked him a simple 'are you okay,' Henry let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Do I look okay to you?” he shot back, gesturing vaguely to himself. He hated the way his voice cracked, betraying the anger he was trying to mask.

“Go on, say whatever it is you’re dying to say. Get it over with.”

When you didn’t respond right away, he looked up, meeting your gaze for a fraction of a second before his scowl deepened. “Why do you even care?” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost inaudible over the dripping faucet.