The school hallway buzzed with life—students laughing, footsteps echoing, conversations blending into a blur. But for him, the world was silent. He walked with his head down, gripping the straps of his worn-out backpack, hoping to disappear.
A shove from behind.
His books scattered onto the floor.
Laughter erupted around him.
"Oops, didn't see you there." A voice full of mockery. A few students snickered before stepping over his things like they were invisible—just like him.
He clenched his fists. Not again.
He bent down to pick up his books, keeping his gaze low, avoiding the eyes, the whispers. The cold sting of humiliation burned in his chest.
Then, a different sound. Soft footsteps.
A pair of hands picking up his books before he could.
He looked up.
She was crouched beside him, her long sleeves rolled up, a hint of rebellion in her expression. She held out his book, a small smirk playing on her lips.
"You gonna let them walk over you like that?" she asked, her voice light but sharp.
He froze. No one had ever asked him that. No one had ever stopped.
He took the book from her hands, hesitated, then mumbled, "It doesn't matter."
She tilted her head. Studied him.
"It does. To me."
And just like that, something shifted
For a moment, he just stared at her, the words "It does. To me." still echoing in his mind.
No one had ever said that before.
He lowered his gaze, fingers tightening around his book. His voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you care?"
She sat back on her heels, resting her chin on her knee. A small, knowing smile.
"Why not?"
He exhaled, shaking his head. He had no answer.
The hallway was still filled with noise, but around them, it felt strangely quiet.
She tapped her fingers against his book. "You don't talk much, do you?"
He shrugged. "People don't listen."
She smirked. "Maybe you've been talking to the wrong ones."
He looked at her again. The way she sat there—calm, like she wasn't in a hurry to leave, like she wasn't embarrassed to be seen with him. Like she actually wanted to be here.
"Do you have a name?" she asked suddenly.
He hesitated. Then, quietly— "Ethan."
She nodded, like she was saving it somewhere important. "Ethan," she repeated, testing the sound of it.
Then, she stood up and stretched. "Well, Ethan. I'll be seeing you around."
And just like that, she walked away.
He sat there for a few seconds, staring at the space where she had been.
For the first time in a long time, his name didn't feel like just a word.
It felt like something real. Something that mattered.
The next day felt the same. The same halls. The same whispers. The same weight pressing against his chest.
Ethan moved through the crowd like a shadow, head down, shoulders hunched, invisible. That's how it always was.
He reached the classroom. The usual seats were taken. Except one.
His.
No one ever sat next to him.
But today—she was there.
Leaning back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers lazily spinning a pen. She looked up as he hesitated in the doorway.
"Took you long enough."
Ethan blinked. "That's my seat."
She grinned. "Yeah? Looks pretty empty to me."
He wasn't sure what to say. He stood there for a second, debating whether to turn around and leave. But something about the way she said it—like she had already decided this was normal—made him sit down.
The classroom buzzed with chatter. No one seemed to notice the small shift in the universe. The seat that had always been empty… wasn't anymore.
After a moment, she spoke again.
"So, Ethan. What's your deal?"
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She tapped her pen against her desk. "You sit alone. You don't talk much. You let people walk all over you. But you don't look like someone who's given up."
He exhaled, turning his gaze to the window. "Maybe I have."
"Liar."
He turned back. "What?"
She tilted her head, studying him. "If you really gave up, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be trying so hard to be invisible. You'd already be gone."
His fingers curled into his sleeve. Her words hit something inside him that he didn't want to face.
For the first time in a long time, someone saw him.
And he didn't know if that scared him… or saved him.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Her words sat heavy in my chest, pressing against something I wasn't ready to face.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" she said, tapping her pen against her desk.
I looked away. "Thinking about what?"
"Running. Hiding. Disappearing." Her voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't pitying either. Just… knowing.
I let out a slow breath. "Would it matter?"
She leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk. "It does. But the real question is… do you want it to?"
I swallowed hard. Did I?
She didn't wait for an answer. She just stared at me, like she was searching for something.
Then, she smirked. "Guess I'll just have to stick around until you figure that out."
A part of me wanted to tell her to stop. To leave. To let me be.
But the other part—the part buried under years of silence—was afraid to be alone again.
The night felt different.
Not heavier. Not darker. Just… still.
The silence wasn't the kind that made my chest tighten. It wasn't the kind that made me feel like I was sinking. It was something else. Something quieter.
I sat on my bed, staring at the dim light from the street. My shadow stretched across the floor, blending into the corners of the room.
For once, it didn't feel like it was chasing me.
I exhaled slowly, my body sinking into the mattress. Maybe—just for tonight—I could rest.
Then—
A soft knock on the window.
I didn't jump. I didn't flinch. I just turned my head, already knowing who it was.
She stood there, outside in the night, her figure barely touched by the glow of the streetlamp. Her expression unreadable. Calm. Knowing.
I got up, unlocking the window. The cold air slipped in, wrapping around me like a quiet whisper.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head.
She climbed in easily, her movements quiet, effortless—like she belonged in the night.
She looked around my room, her gaze flicking to the corners, the walls, the shadows. "It's peaceful here."
I let out a short breath. "It wasn't always."
She met my eyes. There was something in her expression—like she understood that more than I expected.
"I know."
And for the first time, the quiet didn't feel like something waiting to swallow me whole.
It felt like something else.
Something safe.