It was the day before middle school started.I was in my room—my old room.I see myself standing in front of the mirror.In one hand, there's the scissors.They're trembling. Not much, but enough.The girl in the reflection bites her lip, eyes like a dead fish. Her uniform hangs neatly on the wall behind her, untouched—still crisp, still clean.
Her hands move before she's ready.The scissors rise, slow and uncertain, toward the edge of her hair.She hesitates—not out of fear, but because some part of her still hopes someone will stop her.No one does.She doesn't cry. She must think she's already done enough of that.But her breath hitches—just once—right before the blades close for the first time.A strand falls. Then another.She doesn't stop.
I watch the half-cut hairs tumble to the floor, sticking to her fingers, to her sleeves.They look like pieces of something she can't put back.
It had only been a few months since they left.Only a few months since the last time i saw them.It was snowing the day they stopped walking home together.Not real snow—just the soft, dirty kind that melts before it lands. But i remembered it like it mattered.my shoes were wet the whole way home.
That had been the last day she ever spoke to either of them.
First, Cyra disappeared. Quietly. Like a page torn from a book. No goodbye. Just an empty desk and whispers that tasted like blame.Then him. He held on longer. Fought harder. Said things he probably shouldn't.And then he left too.
I watched as a bit of reddish hair falls to the floor, its color standing out against the dark carpet. For a moment, it lingers in the air, a single thread of something that no longer belongs to her.
After they left, things changed. I became the target. At first, it was just the usual teasing, the kind that felt like nothing more than background noise. But then it grew—slowly, like a wound that didn't show its blood at first.
They called me names. They whispered about me, about the way I moved, the way I was too quiet, too distant, and every single thing I did. But it wasn't until the mark on my neck became the topic of their mockery that the real hurt began.
'Marks on your neck are weird.'
They pulled at my hair, teasing me about the reddish strands that showed in the inner layers.
'Looks like your hair's also as weird as you.'
I didn't cry. I endured it, all of it. The words, the laughter, the tugging on my hair, the comments on my neck. I just stood there, still and silent, my face a mask of indifference that I barely recognized. Even when my hands trembled, I never let them see it. I never let them see how much it hurt.
The guilt was worse, though. It coiled around my chest, tight and suffocating. I deserve this, I thought. I must deserve it. If I hadn't been so weak…
The thought spiraled in my mind, an endless loop. Maybe if I had been stronger, maybe if I had spoken up when I still could, things would have been different. Maybe if I hadn't assumed when they started bullying Cyra it was just a joke, or if I hadn't been so blind…maybe if I hadn't been so dense..
Each of my regrets sliced through my heart like the snapping sound I kept hearing, echoing in my ears.
I saw it then—my hair, most of it, tangled under my foot, laying in a pile on the floor. It was like the guilt inside me, piling up and suffocating me.
And in that moment, I wasn't just watching the hair on the floor; I was watching myself—standing in my old room, holding the scissors, trembling just like I was back then. My past self, so far away and yet so close. It was as if I could reach out and touch her. But I couldn't. I was trapped here, a distant observer of my own undoing.
I looked at the mirror again. My hair was short—short like a boy's. But now, most of the reddish color was gone, unnoticeable.
I felt... delivered. Maybe now, I could handle it. that would be survivable. That if I didn't talk, didn't move too much, didn't look at anyone the wrong way… maybe I could still stay invisible.
I remember feeling a small glimmer of hope that day, probebly because it was a new start .
But the truth hurts.
I remembered it as soon as I got there—my first day of middle school. The names had changed, but the people? They stayed the same.Invisibility doesn't mean anything.
It was the first day of middle school. I saw her again—me. But not me now. The other me.The one who still thought things would be different.She walked through the school gates slow, hesitant. Not scared, just... cautious. Like she didn't want to hope too loud in case someone heard it and decided to crush it for fun.
Her uniform was stiff and too new. Her shoes were clean.No one looked at her.No one whispered.No one laughed.
And I could see it in her face—the relief.
That tiny, pathetic little breath she didn't realize she was holding.Her shoulders lowered just slightly. Her eyes lost some of that tight edge. She thought—finally.Finally, they've moved on.
Finally, I'm free.
I felt something twist in my stomach.Not anger. Not grief.
Just… pity.She really believed it.
That because no one tripped her in the hallway or called her names that first morning, that the silence meant safety. That the stillness meant peace.
God, how dense was I?
She sat at her desk like it was some kind of fresh start. Smoothed her skirt, kept her eyes down. She didn't smile, but there was something close to it, hiding in the corners of her mouth.
Hope.
I wanted to scream at her.
Wanted to grab her and shake her and tell her that silence isn't kindness. That just because no one's yelling doesn't mean they're not watching. Plotting. Waiting.
And then I saw it.
The exact moment it hit her.
Some kid leaned over—not to say anything. Just to look.
And that look?
It was all it took.
Her shoulders froze mid-breath. Her eyes flicked sideways. Her jaw tightened.Not a word had been said. Not one insult. Not one laugh.But she knew.I knew.
That wasn't relief she was feeling anymore.That was the moment she realized the game had changed.It wasn't taunts and tripping this time.
It was distance.Isolation.The kind of bullying that doesn't need to scream to hurt.The kind that's quieter. Sharper. More permanent.No one talked to her.No one looked at her again.She had been removed.
And her eyes—That tiny shift.I'll never forget it.
I remembered the way desks would edge away from mine, like I gave off something foul.How group work turned into a performance of "who'll get stuck with her this time?"How the laughter behind me never sounded casual anymore.No one ever said anything out loud.That was the trick.They didn't have to.
They made me feel it—every moment, every glance, every breath.
My voice got smaller.And the space around me?It just kept growing.Like the world had decided I needed room to rot in peace.
The bullies from elementary school were still there.They didn't trip me in the halls or steal my things anymore—not this time. This time, they worked behind the shadows.
They didn't need to say my name. Just hinted.Just enough for everyone else to know: I wasn't someone you talked to.Anyone who came from the same school already knew the script.They didn't come near me.Didn't meet my eyes.Didn't want to get dragged down by association.
But there had been a chance—A small one.The new students. The ones who came from different districts, different backgrounds.They hadn't seen what happened.They didn't know the stories.For a while, I thought maybe… maybe someone might talk to me.But that world began to crumble before I could reach it.
The whispers spread. Rumors.Stories I never told—twisted and passed around until they became truth in someone else's mouth.By the time I realized it, I was already alone again.
But I didn't care.I told myself I deserved it.
In a way, I was relieved.There was no need to explain the scars if no one asked.No need to fake a smile or pretend the silence didn't hurt.
My pain was invisible.That was easier.
So I started my life of being alone.I ate alone.Walked the halls alone.Did every assignment, every club, every project—alone.
During free time, I studied.Not because I wanted to. Not because I had some goal.But because studying didn't ask questions.Books didn't stare.Homework didn't whisper.
Two years passed like that.
No explosions.
No moments.
Just the quiet rhythm of isolation.Just me.
By the time I reached third year, my grades had started to climb.Not suddenly.Not miraculously.Just a slow, steady rise—like I was dragging myself up by the edge of my fingernails.
Eventually, I became the top of my class.It wasn't out of pride. It wasn't even about proving them wrong.It was survival.
If they were going to ignore me, then I'd use that silence.Turn it into something useful.Turn their cruelty into fuel.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, a thought took root.
A dangerous, foolish thought.
What if I could leave? Not just the school.Not just the city.
But everything.
What if there was a place so far, so different, so unreachable—
A place where no one would know my name.
Where no one from my past could follow.
Where I could start again, really start again.
That silver line.I saw it. Thin and distant, but shimmering.
Rumors led me to it—a school whispered about in corners of academic forums and strange test prep books.
A place only the wildly rich or impossibly brilliant could attend.
Some said the entrance exams were brutal.
Some said they were a myth.But a few whispered about scholarships.Only five, they said.Five spots. For those who surpassed everyone else.
My family wasn't poor, but we weren't anywhere close to affording a school like that.If I wanted in, I had to be perfect.No, more than perfect.
I told my parents.They laughed. Not cruelly—just in disbelief.They thought it was a phase. A joke.But I didn't stop.I studied like my life depended on it.Because it did.
Eventually, even the teachers started to believe me.
Started to say things like "you might actually have a shot."
The first test wasn't even the real entrance exam.It was the qualifier.An exam written by over a million students every year—and fewer than a thousand passed it.Only those could move on to the actual entrance exam.And from there—only 100 made it.Only five got the scholarship.
The odds were impossible.But I clung to them like they meant something.
Then one day, the letter arrived.The results of the first test.
I had passed.I was qualified.
The first student in our school's entire history to reach that far.
My name was printed on the results board, circled in red by teachers.
They told me I could do it.That they believed in me.
For the first time in years—I believed, too.
I studied like I was running out of time.Pushed myself until sleep felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.Until my fingers cramped from writing.Until my body stopped keeping track of hours.
And then…Finally, I sat for the real exam.
Afterward, they said the results would come in the post.
Three months.
Three months of waiting.
Three months of silence.
But for a brief, fragile moment—I was relieved.Truly relieved.Because for the first time in a long time, I had done something for me.
But I didn't realize I'd been seeing the world through my own narrow lens.I thought things had calmed down.
That maybe the bullying had stopped because it wasn't working anymore.Because I wasn't breaking the way I used to.
I thought they had given up.Because I didn't care about being alone.
I was wrong.
They hadn't stopped.They had just changed tactics.
It happened during those months of waiting.When all I could think about was the letter that might come. The school. The scholarship.
The escape.
Then—one day—I found something in my locker.
A note.Folded neatly, like a gift.
For a second—just a second—my heart jumped.I stared at it, fingers hesitant.It didn't look like the others. No scribbles. No glue. No mockery.
I didn't trust it.So I took it to the bathroom. Locked myself in a stall.
Unfolded it carefully.Soft words.Gentle handwriting.
A confession.
Someone… liked me?
My hands trembled.
Not from fear.From something else.Something that felt too much like hope.
I stared at the words over and over, like maybe if I read them enough times, they'd become real.
But—But just then, I heard footsteps outside the stall.
My heart jumped.No—slammed.I could hear it pounding in my ears, louder than the world outside.They were talking.Their voices surprised—excited, even.
At first, I couldn't tell what they were saying.I was still inside the stall, staring at the note like it had fused to my hands.
Like if I let it go, it would stop being real.
Someone likes me.
That's what it said.It felt real.
They asked me to meet them—after school, near the playground.
Maybe I should go.
My thoughts spun in every direction.What would I say?What should I wear?Should I smile?
My mind was slipping somewhere else—somewhere not here.
It felt like I was floating, like maybe this world was finally shifting.
I stared at the words over and over, like maybe if I read them enough times, I'd believe them.Like maybe this really was a beginning.
But then—A single word pulled me back down.
"That spot," I heard.
Not from inside my head—But from outside.Their voices, clearer now.
"Let's make a video."
"Yeah, let's."
"She'll come."
My heart slowed.A strange kind of cold spread through my limbs.
Who are they talking about? I thought.
Who's coming? Why a video?
Then—
Laughter.
"She actually thinks it's real."
"She fell for it."
"She's finished today."
My throat closed.My stomach twisted.The letter slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the tile floor like it was never mine to hold.
I understood.It was a trap.Not a prank. Not a joke.A setup.
I didn't cry.I didn't move.I waited—silent—until their footsteps faded.Until the bathroom door clicked shut behind them.
Then I shoved the letter onto the sink and ran.Didn't look back.
Didn't breathe until I was outside.I didn't tell anyone.I just walked home.Like it was any other day.
***
The next day.
I walked into the classroom and felt it instantly.
Different.
Wrong.
The air was heavy.
Something had shifted in my absence.They weren't just ignoring me anymore.They were watching me.
Then—
"She threw it away."
I froze.
The voice came from her.The girl who used to play with me and Cyra.The only one I thought would never betray me.
The only person who hadn't supported the bullies.
She smirked.
"We saw her throw it in the trash. She didn't even read it."
The room buzzed.Murmurs. Whispers.Eyes narrowing.More glares.More venom.
My breath caught.No. That's not true.
I didn't throw it away.I left it in the bathroom.I ran because it hurt too much—because I believed it.But no one cared.
The letter—crushed, discarded—sat in the classroom trash bin.
The perfect evidence for the story they had already chosen.
"She thinks she's better than everyone."
"Who does she think she is?"
They smiled when they said it.Like it was funny.
Like I wasn't even there.I had walked right into their trap.
And now I was alone in a new way.
Not just avoided.Marked.
Their stares burned into my skin.Heat crawled up my spine, wrapped around my chest—tight, suffocating.
I tried to speak.Tried to deny it.
But the words caught like glass in my throat.They had won.
They had cut me off completely.
And the mastermind?The one who twisted it all?
Was the only person I still trusted.
I was isolated.
Completely.
***
I sat in my seat—third row from the window.Same as always.Not because I liked it.Because it was safe
"No, don't look at her... I heard that."
Wishpers
No one looked at me.No one spoke to me.No one asked me to move when they needed to pass.They just walked around me. Like I wasn't even there.
Good.Stay invisible.Don't give them a reason to remember you exist.
Every movement I made was careful.Deliberate.I uncapped my pen slowly.Turned each page like it might shatter in my hands.Like any sound might pull their eyes to me if I wasn't careful.
They're not looking. But they could be.One wrong glance. One slip. That's all it takes.
I kept my back straight.Shoulders tucked in.
Elbows pulled close to my sides.Everything about me was tight.
Contained.
"You monster! Don't come near us."
There was a gap around my desk now.No one sat beside me anymore.No bags near my chair.No coats brushing against mine at the hooks.
Even air won't touch me now.That's fine. That's safer.
I stopped reacting to the whispers.Stopped turning to see who was talking.Because they were always talking about me.
They don't have to say my name anymore.Just me being here is enough.
During breaks, I stayed in my seat.Stared at the same page of my notebook until the bell rang again.
At lunch, I took my tray to the farthest corner of the cafeteria.Not the darkest corner.That would've drawn attention.Too obvious. Too dramatic.I picked somewhere neutral—far, but not hidden.
And I ate without looking up.Without tasting.
Without listening to the voices that never reached me.
Don't make eye contact.Don't eat too fast. Don't eat too slow.Don't be interesting. Don't be pathetic.
Just be… unnoticeable.
Even breathing felt like a strategy.Even silence felt heavy.
No one came near me.Not because they hated me.But because I'd already been erased.And I clung to that silence like armor.Because it was all I had left.
At first, I thought the letter trap was just about jealousy.About how I kept to myself.About how I wasn't supposed to get attached to anyone.I thought it was petty.Mean, sure.But simple.
But I was wrong.
Now I know who was behind it.And because I know that—I also know the rules have changed.
Even the smallest mistake from me could be twisted, magnified, weaponized.And not because I'm important.
Because I'm in the way.
And then—click.Like something inside me finally lined up.I realized something.Something I should've seen a long time ago.
She was the one who started it.The bullying.Not mine—Cyra's.
I remember her playing with us. Laughing. Running through the field like we were friends.Then one day… she stopped.No warning. No fight.She just drifted away.And the next week, it began.
Too convenient.Too clean.If she was the one behind it all, then…
Yeah.
I know why.
And I think—maybe I always knew.Even back then.
Even when I was too scared to admit it.
To her, I was nothing.Just some background noise.
A nobody who happened to ruin her plans by standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She didn't hurt me because she hated me.She hurt me because I tried to save someone she had already decided to destroy.
And I wasn't even a real person in her eyes.Just a mistake.
And now…Now she knows I know.
That I've seen her.Really seen her.
I felt something twist in my stomach—low and sick.She won't let it go.She's not the kind of person who forgives loose ends.
And I knew—The day she comes for me again isn't far away.
***
I see my younger self walking into the classroom.She still believes it—That if she's quiet enough, small enough, forgettable enough, no one can hurt her.
She glances toward the front of the room.There's something going on—A boy is crying. Yeah… he is.Others are gathered around him, whispering, tense.
I watch my past self's expression shift.
Relief.
For the first time in years, they truly don't care about her.
They're distracted.
She walks to her usual seat, quietly, not looking at anyone.
She doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't try to understand.
Because she knows—going near them won't change anything.
As usual, she pulls a book from her bag.Opens it.Starts to read.
***
I hears The bell rings.
I put the book down, fingers loosening around the cover, getting ready for homeroom.But the teacher's already there.
That's strange.She usually enters right as the bell rings, greeting us with a cheerful good morning.
But today—she's already inside.She's standing near the crying boy.
I don't care.Not really.I just wait for her to start the lesson.
Then I hear it.
"She's the one who stole it."
Someone's voice.Sharp.Accusing.
Oh. Someone stole something.
I think about it absently, still half in my book.I'm safe, I tell myself.
I didn't even move from my chair since I came in.
But something's wrong.They're all looking at me.Even the teacher.
My stomach tightens.
Why are they looking at me?
The teacher calls me forward.Her voice is calm. Gentle.
"Kensi, where is the pen?" she asks.
"Please tell us the truth. We won't hit you or scold you."
But I know that voice.I know that face.That's not kindness.
That's disappointment waiting to turn into disgust.
"What pen?" I stammer.
I'm confused.I haven't touched anything. I haven't spoken to anyone.
"No, I didn't steal that," I say, too fast, too shaky.
But then—
A girl runs in from the side of the classroom.She's holding something.
A pen.
Cracked. Broken.
"I found it in her locker," she says.
No.
No, I didn't put it there.
I feel my throat tighten as I hear the boy's sobs grow louder.
He's clutching the ruined pen in his hands like it's a piece of his heart.
The teacher's face changes.The softness is gone.
Her voice is sharp, cutting:
"Why did you do that, Kensi? Hiding is one thing… but this?"
The others—I see it in their eyes.The hidden smiles.
The satisfaction.
They wanted this.They planned this.I was trapped.There was no way out.
"No, I didn't,"
I whisper.My voice breaks like glass.
But they don't believe me.No one believes me.Their eyes cut through me—Accusing.Cold.
Sweat drips down my back.My hands are shaking.
My ears are burning.Even breathing feels impossible.
"No... no... no…"
My voice is a whisper, a scream, a collapse.
The air is too thick.
The room is spinning.
I can't breathe.
Then—
"Kensi?"
Someone calls my name.
I blink.
My head is heavy. My body, heavier. Everything aches.
The air around me feels thick, like it's pressing down on my skin, muffling my thoughts. My eyes open slowly—lids dry, lashes clinging together.
White ceiling.
Soft light.
Curtains shifting with the breeze.
I blink again, slower this time. My throat is dry. My skin is cold and burning at the same time.
I don't know where I am at first
I'm in my room.
The ceiling above me is familiar.Soft light filters in from the dorm window.My skin is clammy. My hair sticks to my forehead.
I hear someone moving nearby.The sound of a chair scraping back.
I try to sit up, but my limbs won't listen. The motion pulls a groan from my chest.
My heart's still racing like it remembers something my mind can't quite catch up to.
What… happened?
The meeting.
Ozaka.
The lounge. The words. The lights.
And then—
Darkness.
I fainted.
A fever.It must have been a fever
I shift my eyes to the side and realize I'm not alone.
Two upperclassmen are standing by my desk—one of them, Sakura. The other girl has her hair tied up in a loose, high ponytail. I've seen her around. She's the one who called my name earlier.They're talking in low voices. I don't think they notice I'm awake.
"She was burning up."
'but earlier she said she was fine'
"Yeah, the nurse said it might've but Told us exactly what to give her."
"Lucky we caught it early."
I feel a hand rest gently on my arm. Sakura crouches beside me, a small bottle in her hand.
"Here," she says softly. "It'll help with the fever."
She waits until I take it—barely managing to lift the cup to my lips.
The water is lukewarm, but it still feels like relief.
"You should sleep," the other girl says. "Let the medicine work. Don't move around too much."
I nod, barely.
They start gathering their things. I hear a backpack zip, the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of the chair being pushed back.
My eyelids droop, too heavy to keep open.I watch them move toward the door—or I think I do.The room blurs around the edges.
Then, a gentle click—the door, closing behind them.
Silence.
I notice the figure left in my room—maybe it's Ozaka. Yeah, it is. She is my roommate, after all.Then I hear her coming closer.
To be honest, I didn't even have the energy to freak out.
I watched as she slowly approached me.
She said something I didn't quite catch.Her voice was gentle, but I couldn't hear it—or maybe I did, but my brain couldn't process it.
I let it take me.Let the haze wrap around me like fog. for now, I drift.
"If you had a fever, why did you come? …No matter what they did to you, you don't deserve it."
***