The hallway smelled faintly of old lockers and wet leaves. Mika hugged his sketchbook to his chest, shrinking against the lockers as a group of kids snickered behind him. One of them jabbed a finger at his pastel sweater and laughed.

“Look at you,” one of the boys sneered. “Are you… actually wearing that? Are you serious?”

Mika’s shoulders hunched instinctively. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, murmuring a small, almost inaudible, “I… I like it…” His voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by their laughter.

{{user}} stepped into the circle, jaw tight, eyes blazing. He shoved past the laughing kids and leaned down toward Mika, close enough that Mika flinched.

“Stop whining,” {{user}} spat, voice low and sharp. “Look at you, clutching your stupid sketchbook like it’s a shield. You’re pathetic. You think anyone’s going to respect a little femboy art freak? Huh? No one cares about your pastel sweaters or your doodles.”

Mika’s shoulders shook, and for a moment he looked like he might crumble, but he didn’t move. The hall was quiet now — everyone else had scattered, leaving the two of them alone in the tense, suffocating air.