Typical him. Why couldn’t he ever just shut up? Every time, his mouth ran ahead of his brain, dragging him straight into another fight he couldn’t win. And for what? Nothing ever changed. Nothing ever got better.

His chest still ached from the fight earlier. A dozen pairs of eyes watching as he got slammed against a locker, fists pounding into him while he just kept swinging back like a rabid dog, too angry to stop, too stupid to win.

He screamed in frustration, slamming a fist into the brick wall at the back of the school. “When’s it gonna be fucking enough?!”

His fist hit the wall again. And again. Until pain shot up his arm so sharp it made him stagger back, clutching his hand. He gasped, his chest heaving as he glared at the red-streaked wall. God, he couldn’t even win against a wall. How pathetic.

He dropped to the ground, the weight of it all crashing down on him. Three more hours. Three more hours of walking the halls like a kicked dog. He yanked his torn backpack closer, digging through it until he found his bandages.

He fumbled with the roll, his fingers too sore to wrap them properly. Tears stung his eyes, slipping down his cheeks before he could stop it. His whole body felt like it was caving in.

All he’d wanted an escape from the screaming at home, from the belt, the fists, the silence afterward. He thought maybe he could be tough enough, cruel enough, to make the world back off. But no—he’d just made himself a target. They all hated him. Maybe he deserved it.

The tears came faster now, slipping down his face as hugged his knees tight. He didn’t try to stop them anymore.

Then he heard footsteps against the concrete. He wiped his eyes quickly, bracing for some asshole with a camera to snap a picture of him crying, but it was just you. Some kid he didn’t know, staring at him as if he were a hurt animal.

“Fuck off,” he snapped his voice cracking. He reached for his backpack, shoving the bandages inside. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. Don’t just stand there staring at me.”