The sharp sound of the alarm clock echoed through the room, its digital numbers flashing 6:00 AM in bright red. James's eyes opened immediately, his body already alert before his mind had fully caught up. He didn't need to check the time anymore. He knew exactly when he had to wake up.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, taking in the silence of his room. It was his Favorite time of day—the world still dark, his mother's footsteps still quiet in the hallway below. The quiet before the chaos. The stillness before the world demanded things from him.
With practiced ease, James slid out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor without a sound. The floorboards creaked under his weight, but he didn't let that bother him. He moved swiftly, methodically, his body moving on autopilot as he followed his routine.
First, he made his bed. The sheets were always pulled tight, the pillows aligned perfectly at the top. His blankets never had a wrinkle. It was a small victory, a tiny bit of control in a life that often felt out of his hands.
Once the bed was made, he moved to the bathroom. The mirror reflected his face—a face that, to the outside world, looked calm, perfect, untouched by the things he kept hidden. He stood in front of it for a moment, examining every inch of himself, his hands hovering over his hair. There wasn't a single strand out of place. His features, sharp and pale, seemed almost too perfect, too calculated. His dark eyes scanned his reflection, checking for any imperfection, but none appeared.
He ran a toothbrush over his teeth with precise, careful strokes. One. Two. Three. The rhythm of it soothed him, just like the counting the night before. He didn't stop until his teeth felt like smooth marble, the minty taste of toothpaste lingering in his mouth.
Then, he splashed cold water on his face, the chill of it jolting him awake, grounding him. The coldness was a reminder that, no matter how broken he felt on the inside, he could always control this part of his life. This part was easy. This part was perfect.
He dried his face with a towel, then stood in front of his closet. Everything inside was organized with military precision. Each shirt, each pair of pants, neatly pressed, folded, and arranged by colour, material, and occasion.
James chose his clothes for the day carefully, selecting a perfectly tailored dark blue shirt—just the right shade, not too light, not too dark—and a pair of black jeans that fit his slender frame with exacting precision. No wrinkles, no stray threads. Everything had to be just right.
He slipped on his black sneakers, making sure the laces were even and tied in the perfect knot. His socks, white and pristine, were always folded to the same height above his ankle. The mirror again caught his reflection, and he adjusted the collar of his shirt slightly, just enough to make it sit perfectly on his neck.
Satisfied, he stood there for a moment, taking in his appearance. He was perfect. Just the way his mother wanted him to be. Just the way the world expected him to be.
His gaze shifted to his backpack resting on his desk. He hadn't forgotten about Charles. He would take the picture with him today, keep it close. He would find a way to make everything align, to make the world see him as he wanted to be seen. For now, though, he had to keep up the appearance. His mother would be downstairs, waiting for him to come to breakfast, and everything had to be perfect.
He reached for the picture of Charles, sliding it into the front pocket of his backpack. The picture would be safe there, a constant reminder of his quiet obsession, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world.
He took one last look in the mirror.
"Perfect".
The kitchen was warm, the smell of eggs and toast filling the air. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the house besides the clink of silverware against plates. Mrs. Conor stood at the stove, her apron tied tightly around her waist, a frown still lingering on her face from last night's tension.
James sat at the kitchen table, his eyes on the cereal box in front of him. The milk was poured precisely into the bowl, the spoon positioned just so. His fingers were still, the act of eating more a ritual than an indulgence. His mother glanced at him over her shoulder, a hesitant breath escaping her as she set down the spatula and turned to face him.
"James," she started, her voice soft, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry for what happened last night. I didn't mean to upset you."
James didn't immediately respond, his eyes still fixed on the cereal. He could hear the genuine remorse in her tone, but it didn't affect him the way it might've once affected a child. He simply nodded, his face an unreadable mask.
"It's just... I want what's best for you, James. You know that, don't you?" Mrs. Conor continued, taking a step closer to the table, her hands wringing together in a gesture of nervousness. "I'm just trying to help you reach your full potential. I don't want you to feel like you're carrying the weight of everything alone."
James lifted his spoon slowly, his movements deliberate. The cereal, already soggy from sitting in the milk for too long, felt dull on his tongue, but he chewed it anyway. His gaze never left the bowl.
"I'm fine," he replied, his voice calm and measured. It wasn't much, but it was enough for his mother. She paused, her face softening just slightly, a faint sigh of relief escaping her.
"I know you are," she said, though her voice still carried the weight of her concerns. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, her eyes searching his face for some sign of acknowledgment.
James didn't give her one. Instead, he pushed the spoon through the cereal again, pushing it around the bowl absentmindedly. His thoughts were already elsewhere, back in his room, with Charles—already planning the next move, the next step in his carefully crafted world.
Mrs. Conor sat quietly for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them. She knew her son better than anyone, but even after all these years, she couldn't always read him. She couldn't tell when something was truly wrong or when he was just pretending.
"Okay," she said finally, standing up from the table. "We should get going. You have school, and I have work. We'll get through today just like we always do."
James didn't respond, but he didn't need to. His mother's assumption that he was fine was enough. She trusted that the routine would keep him grounded. And maybe, for her, that was the truth.
James pushed his chair back from the table, his movements smooth, almost too perfect, as he grabbed his backpack from the chair where it had been placed the night before. The picture of Charles was still tucked into the front pocket, a secret he carried with him wherever he went.
Mrs. Conor grabbed her purse from the counter and slid it over her shoulder. "Have a good day, James," she said, her voice light, almost cheerful, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You too," James replied, his tone flat, but it was enough to satisfy her.
They both walked toward the door, Mrs. Conor out ahead, ready to face the world with a smile, and James, silently calculating, following behind her, his mind already slipping into the routine of his day. The car ride would be quiet. The school day would be controlled. And for now, that was enough.
The car hummed steadily along the road, the faint scent of leather and the soft click of the turn signals the only noises that filled the otherwise silent space. Mrs. Conor drove with both hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white from the tension still lingering between her and her son. She tried to focus on the road ahead, but her mind kept drifting back to last night, to the worry that perhaps she wasn't doing enough for James.
James sat beside her in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed out the window. The world outside was a blur of Gray buildings, trees, and the occasional car passing by, but his focus was somewhere else—on the thoughts circling his mind. His gaze didn't wander to the passing scenery. Instead, his attention was inward, calculating, as usual. His fingers lightly tapped the edge of his backpack, the small movements quick and precise, a silent reminder of the routines that kept him grounded.
The silence stretched, comfortable for James, uncomfortable for his mother. After a few moments, Mrs. Conor spoke, her voice hesitant.
"You know, James... I was thinking... maybe we should talk more often. About... you know, how you're feeling. I can tell something's going on with you, even if you don't want to talk about it."
James didn't immediately respond. His eyes remained fixed on the window; his expression unreadable. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for some kind of answer, but he didn't give her one. The words she spoke felt distant, irrelevant, like background noise he couldn't quite tune out.
"I'm fine, Mom," he said, his voice emotionless, like it always was when he was speaking to her.
Mrs. Conor let out a soft sigh but didn't push further. The rest of the drive passed in silence, both of them locked in their own thoughts, the car cruising down familiar streets.
As they neared the school, the buildings grew taller, the streets busier, and the familiar hum of a high school morning began to seep into the air. The final turn came, and with it, the undeniable weight of the day ahead.
James didn't look up, but his mind shifted from his mother to his routine. He had a plan. He always did.
The car pulled into the school parking lot, the sight of hundreds of students gathering on the sidewalk signalling the beginning of another day. James stepped out of the car with mechanical precision, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. His mother kissed him on the cheek, her way of showing love despite the distance she felt between them.
"Have a good day," she said, her voice soft, filled with hope.
James didn't respond, simply nodding once as he closed the car door behind him. He didn't need to say anything. The routine was all that mattered.
He walked toward the entrance of the school, the sounds of chatter and laughter ringing in his ears as groups of teenagers filled the courtyard. The hallways were noisy with lockers slamming and students rushing to get to class.
James walked with purpose, as always. He didn't look at anyone, didn't try to make eye contact. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his steps calculated and precise.
As he walked into the crowded hallway, he passed several familiar faces, most of whom were too busy with their own conversations to notice him. There were the jocks laughing loudly by their lockers, the cheerleaders in their tight-knit cliques, and the artsy kids huddled in corners, scribbling in sketchbooks. It was the usual scene—chaos with a surface-level order that James had learned to ignore.
Then, his eyes caught him—Charles.
Charles stood by his locker, laughing with a group of friends. His hair was tousled in a way that looked deliberate, the dark brown strands falling just above his brows, slightly curling at the ends. His face was sharp and handsome, with high cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it had been chiselled from stone. His eyes, a warm shade of hazel, glimmered with mischief as he cracked a joke.
He was the picture of confidence, completely unaware of the turmoil James felt just from being in his presence. Charles' casual, almost careless charm only seemed to make James' heart beat a little faster, his thoughts spiralling into a familiar pattern.
James stood still for a moment, his eyes locked on Charles, studying him. The way Charles smiled, the way he moved. It was all perfect in its own way, and it stirred something deep within James—something that was always there, hidden beneath the surface.
But then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. Charles laughed again, throwing his head back, his friends joining in. They didn't even notice James, the silent observer. They never did.
As James moved past them, he noticed a few other students who crossed his path. There was Alexis, a tall girl with dark skin and a sharp wit, who gave James a brief nod as she walked by, not quite friendly but acknowledging his presence. Then there was Nate, a lanky kid with glasses, who looked up at James, clearly nervous, but said nothing. James didn't care about them—Alexis, Nate, and the rest. They were all part of the background, just like the rest of the school.
But Charles... Charles was the one who had his attention.
As James walked to his locker, his hand brushed over the front pocket of his backpack, the picture of Charles still tucked inside. He couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. No one could know. No one ever would. Not yet. Not until he had the control he wanted.
James sat at the back of the classroom, his posture perfect—straight-backed, his hands neatly folded on top of his desk. He looked around the room, his gaze flicking over his classmates, but his mind was elsewhere. His focus was on one person.
Charles was sitting at the front of the class, his attention diverted for the moment to the board, his pencil tapping lightly against his notebook as he scribbled down the notes Miss Hannah was writing. James studied him, his thoughts quickly calculating the best way to catch his attention.
He knew the answer. He always knew the answer.
As Miss Hannah continued explaining the math problem on the board, James' eyes gleamed with a cold, deliberate focus. His mind, always working at lightning speed, had already solved the complex equation in his head before she could even finish writing it down. His fingers twitched, eager to answer, but he hesitated. This wasn't just about answering the question—it was about showing off.
Slowly, James raised his hand, his gaze never leaving Charles. Miss Hannah caught sight of him, her expression one of surprise, as she always seemed to notice his presence but was rarely prepared for the brilliance that followed.
"Yes, James?" she asked, her tone warm but slightly puzzled.
James didn't waste a second. He stood up with practiced precision, his movements smooth and calculated, as though he was already in control of the room. He approached the board, walking with a quiet confidence. The eyes of the class followed him, most of them unfazed by his presence. But not Charles. Charles was still too absorbed in his own world to notice. James' chest tightened. He couldn't afford to let this moment slip away.
He took the chalk in his hand, his fingers wrapping around it delicately. With a quick motion, he began to write the solution to the complex equation, his writing neat and clear, each number and symbol positioned with mathematical perfection. He solved the problem in mere seconds, the answer standing boldly on the board before the teacher could even look up.
James turned around, his eyes scanning the room, but again, his focus was fixed on Charles. Charles didn't seem to notice. He was still writing in his notebook, barely glancing up.
Miss Hannah stepped forward; her smile wide with admiration. "Well done, James. You've done this so quickly, and so precisely." She glanced at the rest of the class, as if expecting some recognition.
But James wasn't listening to her praise. His gaze was fixed on Charles, waiting for any sign that he had noticed him—waiting for Charles to look up, to acknowledge his brilliance.
Charles, however, seemed utterly oblivious, his pencil still tapping, his eyes focused on the paper in front of him.
James' jaw tightened, his patience thinning.
But Miss Hannah didn't seem to notice the growing frustration in James. Instead, she looked at him and then back at the board, saying, "You know, for a student so young, you're quite exceptional. It's almost hard to believe you're just in junior year. You're like... a little genius."
James froze. "Little?" His chest constricted, and the word hit him like a slap. He'd been used to people acknowledging his intellect, but the term little—so condescending, so diminutive—sent a surge of discomfort through him. The classroom felt suffocating, the praise now bitter in his mouth.
He looked at her, his expression carefully neutral. "I am not little," he thought, barely keeping his anger in check. "I am perfect."
Miss Hannah, unaware of the internal storm brewing within him, continued, her tone sweet and innocent. "You're going to do great things, James. You have such a bright future ahead of you."
The words should have felt like a compliment, but to James, they were nothing more than empty platitudes. His throat tightened, and his gaze flicked back to Charles, hoping for some validation—anything—but it didn't come.
"Thank you," James muttered stiffly, his voice cold and impersonal as he returned to his seat.
His heart beat faster, a mixture of anger and frustration bubbling within him. No one truly understood him. They saw his intelligence and were impressed, but they didn't see the control he craved, the perfection he demanded, and the validation that seemed so elusive.
And Charles? Charles still hadn't noticed him.
James returned to his desk, trying to steady his breath, but his hands were shaking. He didn't want to care. He shouldn't care. But as Miss Hannah continued her lesson, as the classroom buzzed with the chatter of his classmates, one thought continued to gnaw at him, growing more insistent with every passing second:
If he couldn't get Charles to notice him now, he would make sure he did eventually. One way or another.
The front door clicked shut behind him as James walked into the quiet house, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He didn't bother to turn on the lights; the darkness was comforting. He tossed his backpack onto the floor with a soft thud and made his way up the stairs, his thoughts heavy, weighed down by everything that had happened that day.
In his room, James stood by the window, staring outside at the fading sunlight. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Charles. His mind replayed the classroom scene over and over—his math problem, the look of indifference on Charles' face, Miss Hannah's offhand comment about his size.
The frustration built inside him, rising like a tide he couldn't control.
"Why didn't he notice me?" James whispered to himself; his voice soft but fastened with growing anger. He stepped over to his desk and took out Charles' picture from his backpack, unfolding it carefully, as if the edges might tear at any moment. He stared at the image of the boy he admired, his fingers hovering over Charles' face, tracing the outline. His lips parted slightly as he kissed the picture, his eyes closed, his breath deep.
"You should've noticed me today," he muttered under his breath. "I did everything right. I solved that problem fast. I stood out. But you didn't care. No, you didn't care. You didn't even look at me."
His fingers tightened around the picture, crumpling it just a little. "Why don't you see me, Charles?" he spoke aloud, his voice breaking. "I'm perfect."
A sharp pain shot through his chest, but it didn't feel like sadness—no, it was something darker. It was the feeling of control slipping away.
"Am I not good enough?" he whispered, his voice quiet but desperate. "Is it because I'm not enough for you?"
The weight of his own thoughts pressed down on him, and for a moment, his breathing quickened. He had to regain control. He always had control. If he couldn't get Charles to notice him, then he'd make sure he did. He would.
He repeated the counting ritual, his fingers trembling slightly as he kissed the picture again, saying each number to himself, as though each kiss, each count, could bring him closer to the boy he longed for.
Later that night, the dinner table was set, and the faint smell of pasta lingered in the air. James and his mom sat across from each other, a tense silence hanging between them. Mrs. Conor stirred her food absentmindedly, glancing at her son. Her tone was soft but laden with guilt when she spoke.
"James," she began, her voice careful, "I—I'm sorry for what I said this morning. I didn't mean it the way it came out. I know you're… you're just trying your best."
James didn't look up from his plate. He didn't need to hear her apologies. She never truly understood. She had never understood him.
"I know you're special," Mrs. Conor continued, trying to bridge the gap. "You're very talented, James. You're just… so young for all that you do. I'm proud of you, but sometimes I—"
James slammed his fork down onto the plate, the clatter of metal against ceramic echoing in the silence. His eyes locked on her, his face still as stone, but his heart was pounding. Her voice was interrupting his thinking. "You don't get it," he spat, his voice rising, barely controlled. "¿Puedes callarte mamá?" you—"
He stopped himself. The words were too much, and something about the way they hung in the air made his chest tighten. His fingers dug into the edge of the table, his nails biting into the wood.
His mother looked taken aback, her face was so shocked and her eyes teary. James stood up sharply and stared at his mom emotionless and sighed. "I'm sorry I have to go to bed" and he left.
The door slammed behind him as James stormed into his room, his breath sharp and uneven. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hands trembled as if they had a mind of their own. His mother's faint apologies echoed in his ears, but he didn't want to hear them. He didn't want to hear anything.
Why couldn't she just understand?
His mind was a whirlwind, a storm of thoughts colliding and crashing against one another. The walls of his room suddenly felt too tight, the air too thick. He needed to feel something. Anything. He couldn't stand this suffocating calm, this illusion of control that was slipping through his fingers, faster and faster.
Without warning, he grabbed his desk lamp and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, glass shattering and metal clanging against the floor. He stood there for a moment, watching the wreckage. His chest heaved, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
Perfect, he thought bitterly, his lips curling into a twisted smile. This is what you wanted, right, Mom?
He moved to his dresser, his fingers digging into the wood as he ripped open the drawers. Clothes flew in every direction as he threw them onto the floor, the neat piles now nothing but chaotic mounds of fabric. Each shirt, each pair of pants, seemed to mock him. It's not enough. None of it is enough.
His face twisted in rage, and he grabbed the first thing he could find—his books. One by one, he flung them across the room, the sharp thud of their impact with the walls and floor like a twisted rhythm, a soundtrack to his spiraling madness.
"Why can't you just see me?!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. He grabbed his mirror from the wall, his reflection staring back at him—too perfect, too controlled, too fake.
With a snarl, he slammed the mirror onto the floor, and the glass cracked in a jagged line. His breathing came faster, his mind clouded with rage. The pieces of his shattered reflection stared up at him, but it wasn't him in the shards. It was someone else. Someone broken. Someone who wasn't in control.
"You ruined me!" he shouted at the pieces, his voice a raw, guttural scream. His hands shook violently, his fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to grab hold of the shreds of his sanity. "I was perfect, Mom. I was perfect, and you... you took it from me."
He kicked the books across the room, his feet smashing into them with savage force. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing against him, suffocating him. He needed to destroy something. He needed to feel control again.
With a primal roar, he grabbed the chair by his desk and flipped it over, the wood splintering with a loud crack. He stood over it, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead. His body shook, the tremors not just from anger, but from something darker, something that felt wrong—a deep, gnawing emptiness that could never be filled.
James' eyes fell onto the picture of Charles, the one he had kissed and counted for so many days. It sat there, taunting him, a reminder of his failure. His desire. His obsession.
In a blur of motion, he grabbed the picture, crumpling it in his hands, his breathing erratic. The crumpled paper felt like the last shred of something he could control, something he could hold onto in a world that was unraveling around him. But even that, in his mind, was slipping away.
"You should've noticed me!" he screamed again, this time not caring if anyone heard. His voice was hoarse now, strained from the force of his outbursts, but the fury inside him wasn't quenched. Not yet.
His fists pounded the walls, leaving marks, dents, and cracks in the drywall. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.
He sank to his knees in the middle of the room, the chaos around him a reflection of the storm inside. The broken chair, the scattered clothes, the shattered mirror—it all seemed like nothing. Just nothing.
"I hate you," he whispered, his voice thick with both fury and exhaustion. He stared at the remnants of his reflection in the broken mirror. "I hate you, but I need you."
His hand trembled as he reached for his phone. Without thinking, he unlocked it and went straight to Charles' picture. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes red, his chest still heaving from the outburst.
The world was a blur of rage and obsession, and as he closed his eyes, he kissed the picture again, just as he always did.
And then he counted. One to ten. Ten times. Over and over.
James' body shook violently as his fists pounded against the floor, the weight of his own fury crashing down on him. The room around him was a mess—a reflection of the storm raging inside him. Broken books, shattered glass, and ripped clothes littered the floor, each piece a symbol of his unravelling mind. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes burned with unshed tears
"What have you done to me?" he cried out, his voice cracking with anguish. The words felt like acid, searing through his chest as they left his lips. His hands went to his face, his fingers trembling as they pressed against his eyes, trying to stifle the tears that came faster and harder.
The tears wouldn't stop. They were hot and bitter, blurring his vision as his entire body trembled with emotion he couldn't control. His chest tightened, the weight of his own helplessness pressing down on him, suffocating him.
He sank to the floor, sitting amidst the chaos, his hands clutching his knees as he buried his face in them. His sobs wracked his frame, uncontrollable, as though everything—his perfect facade, the constant struggle to meet expectations, his own overwhelming feelings—was finally breaking him apart.
*"What have you done to me?"* The words escaped in a hoarse whisper this time, like a prayer he didn't know how to say. *"What did you do? I was perfect. I was everything you wanted, everything you pushed me to be..."*
But now? Now he was this. A mess. A broken, uncontrollable wreck.
Downstairs, he could hear his mother, Mrs. Conor, sobbing quietly, her soft weeping drifting up through the floorboards. The sound of her crying made the ache in his chest grow even more unbearable. She hadn't come to him. She hadn't come to stop him, to console him, to make it all better.
Why wasn't she here?
Her absence felt like a betrayal. She was down there, alone, drowning in her own sorrow, and yet she couldn't be bothered to even check on her son. The son who was falling apart.
*She doesn't care*, he thought bitterly. *She never cared. Not really.*
The more he thought about it, the more the anger swelled inside him. His sobs slowed, turning into angry gasps for breath as he wiped his face with his sleeve. He could feel the heat of his rage rising again, mixing with the suffocating ache of rejection.
Why wouldn't she come? Why wouldn't she fix it? Wasn't that what she was supposed to do?
He wanted to scream at her, to lash out and make her feel the weight of his pain, but he knew that would only make her retreat more. She'd always done that. He could feel it—her distance, her inability to give him the comfort he so desperately needed. She had molded him into someone *perfect*, someone who fit her ideals. But she never saw the cracks. Never saw the storm underneath.
James stood up suddenly, his body tense with frustration, as if the air itself was too heavy to breathe. His eyes flickered to the door, imagining what it would be like to run downstairs, to demand answers, to finally make her see him. But he knew. He already knew.
She wouldn't come. She'd stay there, hidden away in her own misery, the distance between them widening by the second.
In a fit of fury, he kicked the door, the sound of it slamming into the wall echoing through the house like thunder. His hands clenched into fists, the sensation of control beginning to slip away once more.
But still, his mother did not come.
He stared at the door for a long moment, his body rigid, his mind spinning. The sobs began again, quieter this time, more resigned. He sank back to the floor, his hands gripping his hair as he leaned forward, his forehead pressed against the cool surface of the floor.
"Why can't you just *see* me?" he whispered, his voice breaking as he cried once more, the tears falling silently. "I can't do this anymore."
Upstairs, alone, James was left with nothing but the weight of his emotions and the echoes of his broken heart.
Downstairs, his mother, still sobbing, stayed silent. The distance between them, the gulf of unspoken words, grew wider with each passing moment.