There's mango pulp in her hair.
That's the first thing I register.
Chunks of it, mashed and rotting, tangled in her curls like someone tried to scrub her out of herself.
She's soaked - back of her hoodie dark, sticky. One sock missing. A smear of red across her shin, probably blood. Her jeans are damp at the thighs.
And she's silent.
No crying.
No screaming.
Just staring at the wall behind me like she's not in this room. Like her body is just a container now - for everything they poured on her. Everything they made her remember.
---
I tried speaking.
She flinched.
I tried brushing mango off her sleeve.
She recoiled like I'd raised a fist.
When I said her name, she whispered, "You left."
And I swear I felt my lungs collapse inward.
Because she's not wrong.
I did.
---
I lay a towel over her legs and sit beside the bed.
I don't touch her again.
I don't breathe too loud.
I just sit in the wreckage and burn.
With shame.
With rage.
With the kind of guilt they don't teach you how to survive in a rich family.
And then I stand up.
Because if I don't move now, I will become the kind of boy who just sits there.
The kind of boy who lets the world destroy her twice.
---
The teacher's lounge door slams open so hard the hinges shriek.
Seven teachers look up from their breakfast.
I'm trembling. Not from nerves.
From grief.
From disgust.
And from the fact that I've never hated this school more in my life.
Coach Dwayne stands, arms folded. "Luca, this isn't-"
"You let it happen."
My voice is flat.
He freezes.
I walk forward. Slow. Controlled. Like a blade being unsheathed.
"You let it happen."
Mrs. Greene blinks. "Luca, we don't know what you're referring to-"
"Don't."
I slap my phone down on the table.
Press play.
The audio crackles to life.
> "Stair whore!"
> Laughter. Screaming. Wet splashes.
> "Smile for the camera!"
> "You like fruit, don't you?"
> And then - Senna's voice: small, breaking, "Please-stop-"
---
The room goes dead silent.
I pause it.
"Do you want to explain," I ask, "why the only Black girl in this school just got sexually humiliated and doused in spoiled food in front of thirty students, and no one said a word?"
They open their mouths.
I don't give them the chance.
"She trusted you. She showed up. She followed your rules. She kept her head down while you let them laugh at her, day after day after day."
My voice is rising.
I don't stop it.
"She's not your mascot. She's not your quota. She's not your 'look how diverse we are' brochure face. She's a person."
My breath hitches.
"And you broke her."
---
Coach Dwayne tries again. "Let's calm down-"
I slam the table.
"NO."
My hands shake.
"I'm done being quiet. You will expel them. You will take their phones. You will review the cameras. You will give her medical care, therapy, and a public apology."
"If you don't, I will burn every last cent of my family's name through this school's reputation until it's ash."
They stare.
I let them.
Because now they know.
---
I turn to go.
Then stop in the doorway.
"And one more thing," I say. "You better hope she never asks me to forget this."
---
Back in our room, the lights are dim.
Senna's curled under the blanket, but she's awake.
Eyes open.
Still distant. Still silent.
I kneel beside the bed.
"I raised hell," I whisper.
No reaction.
"I'm still raising it."
Her lips part slightly.
I sit back, hands in my lap.
"I'm sorry I left."
Her voice is barely audible.
"They touched me."
I close my eyes.
"I know."
She turns her head. Doesn't meet my gaze.
"I thought... maybe you helped them."
And there it is.
The knife.
Right between the ribs.
Not because she meant to hurt me.
But because I let it be possible.
---
I take a breath. Deep. Shaking.
"Senna," I say softly.
And when I speak again, it's not with a promise.
It's with conviction.
"I'll never be one of them."
She doesn't answer.
But after a while...
She shifts closer.
And rests her head near my knee.
Not on it.
Not quite trusting.
But near.
And it's enough.
For now.