They never call my name first. It always feels like an afterthought, buried beneath the names of people who actually matter. Even when it's said aloud, it's barely audible, like a whisper swept away by louder voices.
"Lucian."
That's me. Just a name scribbled on the attendance sheet, pushed to the edge where it almost fades out of sight. I sit in the last row by the window, not because I want to stare outside, but because it's the easiest place to disappear.
Seventeen years old. Class 2-B. Hando High — not a bad school, but far from perfect. The walls hold scars from years of fights and reckless behavior. Cracks spider-web across the ceiling tiles, and the lockers are battered and dented, some missing doors entirely. The floor near the stairwell bears the dull stain of old fights, and you can still smell the faint trace of sweat and bleach mingling in the air. It's the kind of place where teachers avoid walking the halls after the last bell, and students pick sides like they're soldiers on a battlefield.
Fights here aren't unusual. They're routine. Most times, no one even bothers to stop them. It's survival of the loudest, the strongest, or the smartest at avoiding the chaos.
Me? I don't fight. I don't draw attention. I don't want to be seen.
People pass me in the halls like I'm a shadow, something to glance past but never really see. I speak only when necessary, keeping my voice low, my thoughts lower. My hair is black, messy but not out of rebellion — just because I never cared enough to fix it. My eyes are gray, flat and unreadable. Some say it makes me seem cold, distant, even dangerous. I like that. It keeps people away.
For a long time, I was content with being invisible.
But that changed last Monday.
It started with a desk.
Not mine — hers.
Her name's Yuri. She transferred in three weeks ago. From the way she carried herself, you could tell she came from somewhere else — a better place, maybe. Her uniform was immaculate, her shoes bright white, hair always tied back neatly. She didn't try to fit in, but she didn't stand out either. She just kept to herself, sitting alone in the corner, eyes sharp but quiet.
I watched her. Like everyone else did. Not out of curiosity or pity, but because she was a puzzle in a broken system.
That morning, when she entered the classroom, her desk was gone.
Literally disappeared. No note, no warning, no reason.
She stood there, clutching her bag tightly, scanning the room like she was looking for a place to hide. The usual murmurs started — snickers, whispers, a few mocking smiles. But no one stood up to offer her a seat. Not even the teacher said a word.
So I did.
I slid the chair next to me out with my foot without meeting her gaze.
"Sit," I said quietly.
She paused, hesitating like she wasn't sure what language I'd spoken. Then she walked over and sat down, stiff as a board. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Just silence.
I preferred it that way.
⸻
After that day, everything shifted.
It started small. Subtle glances, whispers behind my back, questions I never wanted to answer.
The first to confront me was Taehoon.
He's a year above me — one of those guys who looks like trouble just by standing still. His crew hangs around the convenience store behind the school, always wearing the same beaten leather jackets and scuffed sneakers. They laugh loud and act like the school belongs to them.
Taehoon caught me near the bike racks after class.
"You think you're something now?" he sneered, stepping close enough to fill my space with his smell — sweat, cigarettes, and something bitter I couldn't place.
I didn't respond.
Instead, he reached out and slapped the back of my head. Not hard, but loud enough to draw the attention of a few nearby students.
"Remember your place, Lucian."
He turned away with a smirk, but the message was clear.
⸻
I could have let it go. I should have let it go.
But I couldn't.
Not because I wanted to pick a fight. Not because I was looking for trouble.
Because Yuri had looked at me that day. Not with gratitude, but with something else — curiosity, maybe. Or respect. I wasn't sure.
⸻
Later that afternoon, I found her in the library.
She was sitting at a table alone, her book open, eyes scanning the pages but not really reading. I slid into the seat across from her without asking.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said without looking up.
"Why not?" I asked.
She closed the book and fixed me with a sharp look.
"This place doesn't forgive favors."
"I don't expect forgiveness."
She studied me for a long moment, then said, "You're going to regret it."
"Maybe," I said. "But it's too late to change now."
She opened the book again, silent.
I didn't leave.
⸻
School isn't just about classes and homework. It's a battlefield of power and reputation. There's a hierarchy here that's unspoken but fiercely enforced — not by grades or clubs, but by who can intimidate, who can fight, and who can survive.
People talk about respect like it's a currency, but here it's more like a weapon. And you either hold it, or you're crushed by it.
I never wanted any part of it. I wanted to keep to myself, stay beneath the radar. But when you do something like give a girl a chair, even one as quiet and distant as Yuri, you change the game.
Whispers started.
"Lucian's acting different."
"You see him hanging around Yuri?"
"He's stepping out of the shadows."
I didn't ask for any of that. I just gave someone a seat.
⸻
Some nights, after the school is empty and the silence presses against the walls, I wonder how I ended up here. How a boy with no friends and no standing found himself at the edge of something he doesn't understand yet.
Maybe I'm just waiting for the moment everything falls apart.
Or maybe I'm already falling.
⸻
The last bell rang, echoing down the cracked hallways. The halls flooded with students eager to escape, to forget, to start whatever was next. I stayed seated, looking out the window at the city beyond. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Yuri gathered her things and stood.
"See you tomorrow, Lucian," she said quietly.
I nodded, unsure if I'd see her, or if things would ever be the same.
I didn't know then that this was only the beginning.
⸻
There's always more between the pages — the things that don't get said, the moments no one notices. And sometimes, that's where the real story lives.