Chapter Two

The worst part about after lunch isn’t the classes.

It’s the walk.

The hallways are too crowded, too loud—everyone pushing past each other, laughing, talking, living like nothing just happened. Like I didn’t just get shoved to the floor and turned into a joke five minutes ago.

I keep my head down and move with the flow, trying to disappear into it. If I stay small enough, quiet enough, maybe I can make it to class without being noticed again.

“Hey.”

My heart drops.

I don’t stop. I don’t even look. Maybe it’s not for me. Maybe—

A hand grabs the back of my shirt and yanks me backward. The world jolts, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I fall again.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I know that voice. I wish I didn’t.

“I have class,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah? So do we.” A laugh, low and amused. “But this is more interesting.”

They pull me out of the crowd like it’s nothing. No one says anything. No one even slows down. It’s like I’ve already stopped existing to them.

I end up pressed against a row of lockers, cold metal digging into my back. My pulse is so loud I can hear it in my ears.

“You didn’t finish your lunch,” one of them says, tilting their head like they’re disappointed.

“I—there wasn’t anything left.”

“Not our problem.”

Another hand shoves my shoulder, harder this time. My head knocks lightly against the locker, a dull ache spreading behind my eyes.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I force myself to lift my gaze, even though everything in me wants to do the opposite. The second I do, I regret it. Their expressions—smirking, bored, entertained—it makes my chest feel tight in a way I can’t explain. And among them is Tiffany Nightengale the school's Queen bee.and someone who absolutely hates me, yes she hates omegas in general but the hatred she has for me is a whole knew level and have no idea why that is.

“See?” one of them says to the others. “It understands.”

More laughter.

My fingers curl into the fabric of my sleeves, gripping tight. If I focus on that—on the feeling of something solid in my hands—maybe I won’t fall apart.

“Say thank you,” someone else adds.

“For what?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Silence.

Real silence this time.

Then—“What did you just say?”

My stomach twists. I shouldn’t have said that. I know better. I always know better.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

The shove comes fast and hard, slamming me back into the lockers. My breath leaves me in a sharp rush, and for a second, I can’t inhale again.

“For putting up with you,” they snap. “For letting you be here.”

Each word lands like it’s meant to stay.

I nod quickly, even though my vision is starting to blur. “Thank you.”

It comes out broken, barely a sound.

“Louder.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

They finally step back, like they’ve lost interest again. Like whatever they needed from me is done.

“Don’t get in our way again,” one of them says, already turning.

“Or next time’s worse.”

They disappear into the crowd just like before—like they were never there at all.

I stay where I am, pressed against the lockers long after they’re gone. My legs feel unsteady, like they might give out if I move too quickly.

Around me, the hallway keeps moving. People pass by, glancing for a second before looking away. No one stops. No one asks.

I push myself upright slowly, adjusting my shirt with shaking hands, like I can smooth everything back into place if I try hard enough.

The bell rings.

I’m late.

But I still go.

Because I always do.

I used to think the classroom would be safer.

It’s supposed to be, right? Rules. Authority. Adults who are meant to stop things before they go too far.

I stopped believing that a long time ago.

I slip into my seat just before the.teacher enters, keeping my head down as usual. The room is already buzzing—chairs scraping, people talking, someone laughing too loudly. I aim for invisibility, like always.

“Nice of you to finally join us.”

My chest tightens.

I look up just enough to see the teacher staring at me from the front of the room. A few students snicker immediately, like they’ve been handed a cue.

“I wasn’t late,” I say quietly,.I really wasn't I entered before him and why was it always me

The teacher raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So now you’re arguing too?”

More laughter.

I feel heat crawl up my neck. “No, I just—”

“Sit down and stop wasting our time.”

I’m already sitting.

The words stick in my throat, but I don’t say them. I never do. Another student walks in at that very moment and all the teacher does is.... nothing, he does absolutely nothing like as though someone didn't just enter ten minutes into the class and I am very positively sure that he saw the student. Why wasn't he angry at them why always me.

Class continues like nothing happened, but it doesn’t feel like learning. It feels like waiting—for the next comment, the next look, the next moment where I become the example of what not to be.

“Since you seem so eager to speak,” the teacher says suddenly, “why don’t you answer the next question?”

My stomach drops.

I didn’t volunteer. I never volunteer.

All eyes turn to me anyway.

“Uh…” My mind goes blank, completely blank. I studied. I know I did. But now it’s like everything’s been erased.

“Well?” the teacher presses. “Or is that too difficult?”

A voice from the back cuts in, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Maybe it’s just too slow.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

“I—I don’t know,” I manage.

The teacher sighs, exaggerated and sharp. “Of course you don’t. Anyone else?”

Hands go up immediately. Confident. Easy. Normal.

“Try to keep up,” the teacher adds, almost as an afterthought. “This is basic.”

The words hit harder than they should. Or maybe exactly as hard as they’re meant to.

I shrink a little further into my seat, wishing I could disappear into it completely.

It doesn’t stop there.

When papers are handed back, mine is dropped onto my desk last.

“Barely passing,” the teacher says, loud enough for the people around me to hear. “You might want to start putting in actual effort.”

“I did,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Someone beside me leans over just enough to see my grade. “Wow,” they say, not even trying to be quiet. “That’s embarrassing.”

I pull the paper closer, like I can hide it, but it’s too late. It’s already out there, just another thing to laugh at.

The rest of the class drags.

Every time I shift, it feels like someone notices. Every time I breathe too loudly, I feel like it’s wrong. Even silence feels wrong, like I’m doing it incorrectly somehow.

At one point, a crumpled piece of paper hits my shoulder. Then another. I don’t turn around. I don’t react. I’ve learned that reacting only makes it worse.

“Focus,” the teacher snaps—not at them. At me.

“I am,” I say softly.

“Then act like it.”

I nod, even though I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong anymore.

By the time the bell rings, I feel… hollow. Like everything’s been scraped out and there’s nothing left but the outline of me sitting in that chair.

Everyone rushes out, relieved, talking about anything and everything.

I take a little longer.

I gather my things carefully, making sure nothing falls, nothing draws attention. My paper is folded and tucked away where no one can see it.

As I stand, the teacher’s voice stops me.

“Try harder tomorrow.”

I don’t turn around.

“I will,” I say, even though I’m not sure what that even means anymore.

Because I’ve been trying.

I’ve been fucking trying the whole time.

And at this point I don't know what to do anymore because I know I read, I studied, i racked my brain and all I get is try harder speech. I leave the class on my way down the halls trying to get to my next class in one piece and I overhear a group of students talking about the test we just had they each call their scores each one lower than the last, and I wonder why they weren't scolded or punished but I was humiliated, scolded and punish.