Rain Wang's POV
I lasted forty-seven minutes.
That's how long I managed to stay in the room.
Forty-seven minutes of trying to make myself disappear.
Forty-seven minutes of pretending I didn't hear them.
The stares.
The whispers.
The laughter.
The girls in the third row who kept glancing back.
The boy who nudged his friend when I walked in.
The way everyone looked at me—like I was some discarded thing. Spoiled. Stained.
I felt their eyes on my clothes.
On the way my sleeves swallowed my hands.
On the hoodie that used to be my brother's.
On the pants that sagged too much at the waist.
They were used to silk blouses and ballet flats.
Used to makeup and perfume.
Used to a girl who tried to be graceful.
Not this.
Not the mess I am now.
And Sebastian…
He looked at me once.
Just once.
I felt it.
That split second.
Then nothing.
Like I was a stranger. Like I didn't exist anymore.
I couldn't even hate him for it.
How could I?
I didn't recognize myself either.
I sat in the back row and kept my eyes on the desk.
Counted the scratches in the wood.
Willed myself not to cry when someone muttered, "She used to be hot," followed by a laugh.
My throat burned.
Not from tears—those were long gone.
From shame. Exhaustion. Rage.
I wasn't supposed to come back today.
But my mom called this morning.
Just her voice.
Soft. Kind. Almost too gentle.
"Rain, honey. Just try. One class. You don't have to stay if it's too much, okay? Just one."
And I said yes. Because I wanted to make her proud.
Because I thought maybe I could handle it.
I was wrong.
So wrong.
By the time class ended, I was already halfway to breaking.
I didn't wait.
Didn't look at anyone.
Didn't breathe until I was out the door.
Then I ran.
Ran up the stairs to my dorm.
Fumbled with my key—hands shaking.
Slammed the door behind me and locked it twice.
And then I collapsed.
Right there on the floor.
Back against the door.
Hood still on. Bag still hanging from one shoulder.
I pulled my knees up and shoved my face into them.
Finally—finally—let myself cry.
Not pretty tears.
Not silent ones.
Ugly sobs. Loud. Muffled into fabric.
Like I was trying to cough out all the shame still rotting in my chest.
They don't know.
They don't know anything.
About the texts.
The photos.
The threats.
About how I couldn't sleep because I kept checking the locks.
How I didn't eat because I was scared to leave my room.
How I turned off every light and sat in the dark because I couldn't bear my own reflection.
They think I'm broken because I wore sweatpants.
They don't know I almost never came back at all.
But I did.
I came back.
And they can laugh.
They can whisper.
They can point all they want.
But I'm still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
And even if it hurts like hell right now…
They haven't won.
Not yet.