Everything went wrong.

We were in the same class—me, the invisible girl who ate lunch alone, and him, the delinquent everyone whispered about. He played tough, skipped classes, picked fights. But I noticed his hands shook when teachers yelled. He were scared. Just like me.

We never spoke. Not until that night.

We sat on the rooftop, legs dangling, sharing cheap snacks and heavier truths. Poor homes. Parents who wanted silence more than children. He listened. Really listened. For the first time in my life, I talked until my throat hurt.

“I get it,” he said softly.

Weeks passed like stolen breaths.

Then lunchtime came.

Behind the school, the bell ringing far away, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“I’m pregnant,” I whispered, eyes burning. “I don’t know what to do.”

He froze.

The boy who never feared fists or authority went pale.

“…Is it mine?”