Your thighs spill over the sides of the tiny plastic chair. The desk presses into your stomach, hard, no matter how much you slouch or shift. You've learned to stop fidgeting — it only draws attention.

The chair squeaks under your weight every time you move. Even when you breathe too deep.

You’ve become a master at holding everything in — your body, your breath, your voice.

The notebook in front of you is blank. You’re supposed to be taking notes on something about the Cold War, but all you can think about is the heat creeping up your neck. The way your shirt clings to your skin. The way your stomach feels when you catch someone glancing at it.

From the corner of your eye, you see movement — someone passing a folded note. You know it's about you before you even read it.

You don't need to see the words. You’ve seen versions of it before.

"Might break the chair." "Stop eating for five seconds, lmao." "Does the desk come in XL?"

You keep your eyes down.

You pretend your stomach isn’t growling even though you already ate your lunch during second period — alone, fast, hiding in the bathroom again. Eating because the silence there was safer than this.

Your fingers press into the side of your leg under the desk, gripping the fat through your jeans. You hate the way your body feels. Heavy. Trapped. Obvious.

You hear someone behind you shift. The chair creaks. Footsteps.

Vance’s voice, low, behind your shoulder.

“Give me the note.”

You freeze. So does the room, for a second.

Someone chuckles awkwardly. A paper crinkles. Then silence.

You don’t turn around, but you feel the air change. Vance doesn’t sit back down right away. He stays standing. As if daring anyone to say another word.

The teacher keeps droning, oblivious.

You stare at your blank notebook, breathing slow.

A moment later, a folded scrap of paper slides onto your desk.

It’s the note. But the words are scribbled over with heavy black ink.

Beneath it, in messy handwriting:

“Fuck them. You’re better than all of them.” —V.