My name is Balen, but no one calls me that anymore.
To them, I'm Bhosty. Or Bhostomu, when they want to sound clever. Sometimes S-Blast, short for "Stupid Blast," because apparently one clumsy moment in seventh grade is enough to brand you for life.
I used to think rules were meant to protect kids like me. That if I followed them—kept quiet, stayed polite, did my homework—someone would step in. Someone would say, "Hey, leave him alone." But no one ever did.
Today, Ryan shouted across the hallway, "Yo, Bhostomu! You floatin' through walls again?" Laughter. Always laughter.
But this time, I didn't keep walking. This time, I turned around.
I looked him dead in the eye and said, "You know what, Ryan? You've got a lot of nerve calling me a ghost when you disappear every time someone asks you to think."
The hallway froze. Not because it was the best comeback in the world, but because I spoke. Because I, the quiet kid, the "idiot," the "loner," had a voice. And I used it.
Ryan blinked. His smirk twitched. Someone muttered, "Whoa." Someone else laughed—but not at me this time.
I didn't wait for a reply. I walked past him, head high, heart pounding like a drum solo. They still called me Bhosty after that. But now it sounded different. Less like a punchline. More like a name they weren't sure they owned anymore.
I used to believe in rules. Now I believe in moments. Moments where you stop being the joke and start being the story.