A few minutes later I found myself in the lunchroom. It buzzed around me, a low, constant hum of hundreds of voices layered over the scrape of chairs and the clatter of trays. It smelled like stale pizza, spilled soda, and something vaguely metallic like the building itself was tired and rusting from the inside out. I hated it hear, but it was better than other places. A ton of students would leave school to get fast food, so normally I was never bullied here. Plus, it was better than spending lunch in a teacher’s classroom.

  The room was in full of clatter and laughter and vibrant, shifting cliques I’d never be part of. I sat at my usual table in the corner, tucked away, my knees pulled close to my chest under the table, my tray untouched in front of me. The mashed potatoes had formed a pale, gluey dome beside the one piece of chicken that looked like it hadn’t survived the War of 1812. A spoonful of limp, overcooked green beans sat beside them like an afterthought. Oddly made me miss my mom’s bangers and mash she used to make, before…

  Forget that.

  I wasn’t hungry anyway. Or maybe I just didn’t want to eat with everyone watching. Not that they were watching, not directly, but it felt like it. That slow, prickling burn at the back of my neck, that imagined spotlight that always seemed to find me when I least wanted it, highlighting my awkwardness, my otherness.

  I pulled my phone from the pocket of my hoodie and stared at the screen, the familiar cracked glass was cool under my thumb. Nothing. The stark white of the notifications page was a blank wall. No messages, no missed calls, no one wondering how my day was going and if I was okay. I refreshed the same blank home screen over and over, the little spinning wheels a tiny, mocking promise of connection. Like maybe if I kept doing it, the universe would finally get the hint. Maybe someone, anyone, would remember I exist.

  A few tables over, Kiley laughed loud, too loud, a bright, sharp sound that cut through the general din. She shoved a boy’s shoulder playfully, her fingers brushing the edge of his hair like it was nothing, an easy, confident touch I couldn’t imagine making. Brooklyn sat perched beside her, legs crossed high, her midriff on display between her low-rise jeans and cropped top, lips shiny with gloss under the fluorescent lights. I caught a flash of her belly button ring as she twisted to show something on her phone to the guys crowded around their table. The guys leaned in, shoulders touching, laughing along. Of course, they did. They always did.

  I looked down at my own jeans, the threadbare knees, the faded wash. My chipped nail polish. My shoes were scuffed, worn out. My hoodie string had come loose from the grommet on one side and dangled unevenly. I picked at it, twisting the fuzzy end between my fingers. I tied it back into a knot, then immediately undid it, then tied it again. It was something to do with my hands, something to anchor me in the swirling noise.

  The screen of my phone lit up, startling me. My heart jumped, a sudden, stupid flutter of hope against my ribs. One notification. Finally.

  The banner slid down. Mom. Mom: Hey hon, not gonna be home tonight. Got invited to a party. There’s a can of soup in the pantry. Be good. xx

  That was it. Not “How was your day?” or 'Thinking of you.” Just... Not home. Soup. Be good.

  I stared at the message for a long time, the screen blurring slightly. My fingers curled around the phone until my knuckles ached, white and tight. A party. It wasn’t the first time. So far this week, she had been alone each night. At least Cinderella’s step-family talks to her. Mom was probably already tipsy, or halfway there, feeling loose and happy. I pictured her in one of her barely-there tops, laughing with strangers, her hair bright under unfamiliar lights, forgetting she had a daughter waiting in an empty house.

  Forgetting me. “Mother of the fucking year,” I whispered to myself.

  I could already taste the metallic, salty soup, cold and thick in the back of my throat, the kind you heated yourself because there was no one else to do it. I closed the message. Locked the screen. Set the phone face-down on the table, the black rectangle a gravestone for my failed hope.

  The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. Not like the moments in the change room, or those teachers making fun of me. Mom forgetting back me was just a low, dull throb that lived deep in my chest, settling heavily in my legs and behind my eyelids. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix, a weariness that went bone-deep. I pulled my hoodie sleeves down over my hands, hiding them, and pressed my fisted hands to my lap, holding myself together. Around me, the noise swelled again. Voices rising, trays clanging, shoes scuffing across the tile. The world went on. Fast and careless and loud.

  I didn’t start cutting because I wanted attention. It wasn’t like that. It was more like... When everything inside got too heavy, slicing through the surface made it lighter, even if just for a second. My mom never noticed. Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

  She never asked about the long sleeves in the middle of summer, never questioned the Band-Aids stacking up in the bathroom trash. But Ms. Elvevoll, my middle school counsellor, noticed. She pulled me aside one afternoon, voice soft, eyes even softer. I didn’t know what to do with that, with someone actually caring. I still don’t.

  Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve been different if I’d let her in more. Most of the time, though, I know better. Some stories aren’t meant to be fixed. They're just meant to survive.

  I sat still, a small, quiet island in the current. I didn’t eat. The gluey potatoes looked even worse now. There were thirty-one minutes of lunch left. I watched the clock on the wall, the second hand sweeping around, marking the time I just had to get through. Each tick felt slow, deliberate. I counted them.

  Tomorrow, I knew, I’d do it all again. Just like today. Just like yesterday.

  The bell rang like a mercy kill. The last two classes passed by without much happening. English was fine. We were just reading quietly, which meant nobody looked at me or said anything.

  Art was better. I could lose myself in the smell of paint and the scratch of pencils across the paper, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. Until… I saw Hannah coming, one of Kiley’s ever-present little sidekicks. She would look exactly as you’d expect. Blonde hair that always seemed perfectly sun-kissed even in fluorescent light, perpetually tanned skin that spoke of hours spent outdoors (or perhaps just careful sunbed use), and the lean, athletic build of someone who spent their afternoons spiking volleyballs. She looked, in the brutal and shallow scoring system of high school, like a ten.

  She sauntered past my easel, her eyes flicking dismissively over the canvas. A low sneer curled her lip as she muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear, "Ugh, more of your emo shit." Normally, that would have been the cue. The signal for her built-in audience. The carefully curated collection of giggling girls who orbited Kiley; to erupt into a manufactured chorus of mockery…

  Ten more minutes, I thought.

  A wave of snickers, escalating into full-blown, performative laughter designed to make me shrink and disappear. But today, Hannah was flying solo. Kiley and Brooklyn didn’t take art. And in the sudden, unexpected silence that followed Hannah’s remark, nobody laughed. Not a single person. They just kept painting, sketching, sculpting, lost in their worlds. The air didn't fill with mocking echoes. The room didn't suddenly feel ten degrees colder. Just the quiet sounds of creation. It was a small thing, maybe. But in that moment, it felt huge.

  It was a reminder of why Art class, for all its challenges, was a refuge. It was the one place where the usual cruelties seemed to lose their footing, where the performative meanness of the social hierarchy wasn’t the dominant language. It was the one class I didn't actively despise, the one place I could almost, almost, forget about the rest of it.

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  For a little while, it almost felt normal.

  Almost.

  By the time I stepped out into the afternoon, the sky had turned a dull bruise-gray. Wind swept through the courtyard, catching dead leaves and lifting them into lazy, spiralling dances before dropping them in the gutter. My boots scuffed along the cracked sidewalk behind the school, the long way out. I preferred it that way: fewer people. Fewer eyes. Fewer risk.

  The parking lot was mostly empty now. Just a few cars, scattered like afterthoughts. Most kids had somewhere to be. Friends to pile into back seats with. Plans. Noise. Life.

  Me? I had a long walk home and a can of soup waiting in the pantry.

  I heard the footsteps before I saw them. Quick, purposeful. Laughter, thin and sharp. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was them. The same trio that had been whispering behind me all day, passing glances like gum wrappers.

  “Hey, Chloe!”

  “What a whore,” Brooklyn yelled. All the while the tops of her boobs almost bounced out of her shirt. I wanted to say something, like look in the mirror, but I lost my voice.

  I didn’t answer. I kept walking, hoping maybe this time they’d get bored. Maybe this time, they’d let me dissolve into the sidewalk like I always wanted.

  They didn’t.

  They slowed their pace, shifting subtly until I was neatly caught in their casual triangle formation. My heart immediately started to hammer against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. My throat felt dry like I’d swallowed dust. The tallest one, Hannah, jogged up beside me. “Didn’t know they let witches enroll now,” she said, mock-serious, tossing a look back at the other two.

  Brooklyn wearing a cherry lip gloss that matched nothing she had on, added, “Ever think people don’t talk to you ‘cause they don’t know what you are?”

  Before I could even register what was happening, Hannah’s hand darted forward, quick and sharp, plucking my worn notebook right out of my arms. She started flipping through it, a look of mocking curiosity on her face. Brooklyn, silent and watchful, circled behind me, cutting off any chance I had of grabbing the notebook back or trying to slip away. I could feel her presence at my back, a solid, unyielding barrier that felt just as threatening as a direct shove. Kiley laughed then, a low sound that was all cruel edge and no humour and leaned in close.

  "Let’s see what little Chloe writes about," Kiley purred, her breath warm and sickeningly sweet against my ear. Hannah waved the notebook just out of reach, the pages fluttering like wounded birds under her triumphant grip.

  “Probably how much she wants you or your boyfriend,” Hannah laughed.

  “Hey—” My voice cracked as I reached for it.

  “Maybe she isn’t a whore, but wants it anyways,” Brooklyn added.

  “Stop,” I said, but my voice was lost in their bullying.

  Too late.

  She flipped it open, thumbing through the pages. “Awww, guys, she writes poetry.”

  My stomach dropped. My body froze. “That is,” I tried to whisper.

  “‘I could disappear and no one would notice...’” she read aloud, pitching her voice high and breathy. “‘Even the mirror forgets me sometimes.’ Wow. You okay, Shakespeare?”

  They laughed. All of them. Loud, sharp. My cheeks burned. My hands shook. Something broke loose inside me, and I lunged, trying to grab it back. Hannah yanked it away. There was a ripping sound. Pages tore and fluttered to the pavement like dead wings.

  “Oops,” she said. Smirking. Triumphant. I stood there for a heartbeat, staring at the shredded pieces of my own words.

  "You're not even worth hating, Chloe. You're just... There. Like gum stuck to a shoe," Kiley said with a smile like a cat playing with a mouse. "Nobody would even notice if you disappeared. Hell, they'd probably be relieved."

  Then she laughed. Kiley's cruel, fake-sweet laugh feathered over me just before her shoulder slammed into mine. Followed by a deliberate shove that sent me stumbling sideways. Before I could even regain my balance or turn to face her, sharp fingers tangled violently in my hair at the back of my head, yanking it hard. My head snapped back with a sickening jolt, the sudden, brutal pull so unexpected and painful that my eyes immediately welled up with tears.

  "Stay still, freak," Brooklyn's voice sneered from right behind me, low and vicious. Pain bloomed across my scalp, a searing ache radiating from where her hand still gripped my hair like a leash. Then, without a hint of warning, a sudden, sharp impact rocked my chest. Her fist, hard and unforgiving, slammed into me just below my collarbone. The force of it stole the air from my lungs. I doubled over instantly, clutching my ribs, gasping desperately for breath that wouldn't come. The world outside the throbbing, dull ache in my chest and the sting in my scalp ceased to exist. All that was left was the raw pain and the sickening sound of their laughter, echoing around me as I crumpled.

  I stayed on my knees, gasping, my vision blurring from more than just tears. Brooklyn’s punch still echoed through my ribs. My notebook lay torn and filthy in the street like it didn’t matter at all.

  Kiley stalked up to me, smirking. "You’re pathetic," she said, almost like she was bored. Then she spit straight into my face. It hit just below my eye and slid down my cheek.

  I flinched, but I didn’t move fast enough. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and jerked my head up, forcing me to look at her. "Look at you. Nobody’s ever gonna love a freak like you. Not even out of pity."

  She shoved me backward, I went down, and the concrete scraped my palms bloody. Behind her, Brooklyn and Hannah laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d seen all week. I just stayed there, humiliated and small, wishing I could tear myself out of my skin.

  “Fucking, slut.”

  Then I pushed up, turned and ran. I didn’t even look back. The world blurred around me. My ears rang. My chest felt too tight like it had shrunk down to the size of a fist. My breath came fast and hard, but I couldn’t stop running. I needed to get away, from them, from school, from me.

  It wasn’t just humiliation. It wasn’t just being seen; it was being unknown and hated. That someone had looked inside and found nothing worth protecting. By the time I made it to the corner of the street, I couldn’t tell if the wetness on my face was just the spit, it was a combination of sweat and tears.

  I wiped it away anyway. There were no teachers. No friends. No one. Just wind and broken leaves, and the echo of their laughter buried somewhere deep in my chest. Hopelessness wasn’t a scream. It was silence. And it followed me all the way home.

  The city street stretched ahead in streaks of red and silver, headlights flickering through the drizzle like ghost stories. Rain had started to fall; not hard, but steady, soaking into my hoodie, flattening my hair to my face. Each drop felt like a pinprick. The kind you don’t feel until the bruising starts.

  My breath came in gulps. Hot. Wet. Useless. Behind me, footsteps echoed sharply against the sidewalk. Not fast. Not desperate. Just steady. Confident. Like she had all the time in the world.

  Kiley.

  I didn’t have to look to know.

  She’d followed me; past the school, past the old bus stop, past the place where my shoelace had come undone but I hadn’t dared stop to tie it. My tears mixed with the rain, but I couldn’t wipe them away. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even think.

  Everything was noise: the pounding in my ears, the rush of cars on wet asphalt, the hum of streetlights flickering to life. My legs were aching, my lungs burned, and I still kept going.

  Faster.

  Don’t stop. Don’t stop. I was already halfway down the sidewalk when I heard her. Kiley, she sprinted up behind me. The sound of her shoes slapping the wet concrete echoed too loudly in my ears, every step stretching out longer than it should. I tried to run faster, but my shoelace whipped against my ankle, unravelling everything.

  Then, Kiley’s hands shoved between my shoulder blades. The world tipped forward in syrupy slow motion. I watched, almost calmly, as my arms pinwheeled out. My foot caught the dangling lace. My body pitched toward the street.

  The bus was there. It was a hulking wall of silver and dirt-streaked windows. The bus rumbling past like some enormous, living thing. I saw the blur of passengers inside: a woman holding a grocery bag, a boy with headphones, a man staring down at his lap. None of them looking. None of them seeing.

  The scent of hot rubber and gasoline filled my nose. The roar of the engine vibrated through my ribs. I didn't even scream. I just hit the ground, hard, my body folding like paper, scraping against the sidewalk. The bus thundered over top of me, inch by inch. The breaks started to scream, but my soul was already leaving.

  For a long second, there was only the sound of passengers screaming. Then Kiley’s laughter broke through; cruel and sharp, slicing into the silence like a knife.