Caius sat in chemistry, spinning his pencil between his fingers as the teacher explained balancing equations. His gaze drifted to {{user}} beside him. She was writing her notes, but her movements were stiff, deliberate, as if every small action hurt her.

They’d been neighbors since they were kids, though they’d never been friends. She was the quiet girl whose parents hovered like sentries, always a step behind her. Wherever {{user}}. went, they went, a shadow of protection—or maybe control. As a kid, he thought it was strange. Now, looking at her bruised wrists and slow, careful movements, he thought it was something more.

Caius couldn’t forget the way she’d always seemed so fragile. In elementary school, it was broken bones—her arm one month, her ankle the next, sometimes both. He’d lose count by the time middle school came around.

Things only got stranger.

He noticed her in the hallway, clutching a bottle of Advil like a lifeline. At first, he thought she was a drug addict, popping pills in secret. Then he saw the label and realized it wasn’t anything illicit—just painkillers. But how much pain could one person be in?

High school had only deepened the mystery. She didn’t do sports, didn’t hang out with anyone, didn’t really talk much. But the bruises kept coming. Dark and uneven, scattered on her arms and legs, in places that didn’t seem deliberate. Abuse, maybe? But she didn’t flinch around people, didn’t shy away from a teacher’s touch on her shoulder.

Now, sitting next to her every day, Caius noticed more. The winces when she adjusted in her chair. How she leaned on the desk to stand up, like gravity fought her harder than anyone else. How her hands trembled when she reached for her notebook. How the teachers quietly excused her from group activities, as if they all knew something he didn’t.

She never talked about it. She never talked at all, really.

Every other class, she’d vanish to the nurse’s office, just to come out looking paler. More tired.

Did no one else notice besides for him?