Siapa yang Peduli?

Ella

“Hey, James. Did your closet finally lose a fight with a dumpster?”

Laughter broke out behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

That was rule number one.

Actually, it was the only rule that really mattered.

Don’t react.

Don’t engage.

And whatever you do, don’t let them see it hurts.

The hallway buzzed with the usual chaos of Monday morning. Lockers slammed. Someone shouted across the hall. A group of cheerleaders crowded around a phone, squealing about something. Normally all the noise blended together into one giant blur I could disappear into.

Today, all I could hear was them.

“Come on,” the voice called again. “I know you heard me.”

Of course I heard him.

Everyone heard Beckett Cross when he wanted to be heard.

The thing about Beckett was that he never had to raise his voice. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that made people pay attention automatically. Teachers smiled when he walked into class. Coaches practically worshipped him. Girls stared when he passed by.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, he had decided that making fun of me was one of his favorite hobbies.

I adjusted the strap of my backpack and kept walking.

The oversized cardigan hanging off my shoulders felt heavier than usual. It was already too warm outside for sweaters, but I wore them anyway. Long sleeves. Loose clothes. Layers.

Layers hid things.

Layers made me feel safer.

Or at least they used to.

“Maybe she can’t hear you,” another voice said. “That sweater probably covers her ears too.”

More laughter.

Sean.

Of course it was Sean.

Sean laughed at everything Beckett said, whether it was funny or not.

Heat crawled up my neck, but I focused on my locker twenty feet ahead.

Just get there.

Open the locker.

Grab your books.

Go to class.

Easy.

Three more steps.

Two.

One.

Something hit the back of my head.

I frowned.

A second impact followed almost immediately.

Then a third.

I froze.

My stomach dropped before my hand even reached my hair.

Please don’t.

Slowly, I pulled my fingers through the dark strands and felt something wet.

A spitball.

Seriously?

For one second, I closed my eyes.

Not because of the spitball.

Because I was tired.

So unbelievably tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t bother me.

Tired of wondering what I had done to deserve being everybody’s favorite target.

Tired of waking up every morning already counting down the hours until I could come home.

I pulled the soggy paper free and stared at it resting in my palm.

Behind me, the laughter grew louder.

Several students glanced over.

Most looked away.

Nobody said anything.

Nobody ever did.

That was the thing about bullying.

People always talked about standing up for others.

In reality?

Most people just thanked God it wasn’t happening to them.

“Aw, look,” Sean called. “She found it.”

Another round of laughter followed.

I swallowed hard.

The familiar sting burned behind my eyes.

Not here.

Please not here.

The last thing I needed was to cry in front of half the student body.

I shoved the spitball into the side pocket of my backpack and turned around.

There they were.

Beckett stood in the middle of the hallway surrounded by his friends like he owned the place.

Maybe he did.

At least it felt that way.

People naturally moved around him. Made room for him. Looked at him.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and annoyingly good-looking. Dark blond hair fell across his forehead in a way that somehow looked effortless instead of messy. Everything about him seemed effortless.

Football.

Popularity.

Girls.

Life.

His expression was relaxed.

Almost bored.

But his eyes were fixed on me.

Not Sean.

Not anybody else.

Me.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like my reaction was the part he cared about.

He lifted one eyebrow.

“What?” he asked.

The word made something hot twist in my chest.

Because he acted like he hadn’t seen it happen.

Like he hadn’t stood there and watched.

Like he wasn’t enjoying every second of it.

I stared at him.

And for one stupid moment, a memory surfaced.

A younger version of Beckett.

A younger version of me.

Two kids riding bikes down our street during summer break.

Back when being neighbors meant something.

Back before high school turned him into someone I barely recognized.

The memory vanished as quickly as it came.

“What do you want?” I asked.

The words came out quieter than I intended.

His grin tilted slightly.

“Nothing. Just trying to figure out if that sweater gets bigger every year…”

His gaze flicked over me.

“…or if you do.”

The laughter that followed felt like a punch to the stomach.

Heat flooded my face.

There it was.

The joke everybody expected.

The joke everybody laughed at.

The joke I pretended didn’t matter.

Walk away.

That’s what I always did.

Walk away and survive another day.

But something felt different.

Maybe because I’d barely slept.

Maybe because Mom had left before sunrise again and forgotten to say goodbye.

Maybe because I was exhausted from carrying around the weight of everybody else’s opinions.

Or maybe I was simply done.

For once.

Just once.

I couldn’t make myself walk away.

I looked directly at him.

“At least my personality doesn’t need a team of idiots to survive.”

The hallway went silent.

Completely silent.

The words escaped before I could stop them.

For one horrifying second, I forgot how to breathe.

Every single person around Beckett looked stunned.

Sean’s mouth literally fell open.

Someone farther down the hall let out a quiet, “Damn.”

My heart immediately started trying to escape through my throat.

What did I just do?

What was wrong with me?

Beckett slowly pushed away from the locker he had been leaning against.

The amusement disappeared from his face.

The hallway seemed to hold its breath.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

People moved aside automatically as he approached.

By the time he stopped, I had to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.

He was close.

Too close.

“You want to try that again?” he asked quietly.

The softness of his voice somehow made it worse.

Everything inside me screamed to back down.

I knew how this worked.

I knew how this ended.

He would say something worse.

Everybody would laugh.

And tomorrow would be even harder than today.

That’s how things always went.

But the stubborn part of me—the tiny part that was apparently having a death wish this morning—refused to back down.

“No.”

The word came out surprisingly steady.

“I think you heard me the first time.”

Another silence settled between us.

His jaw flexed.

For a second, something flashed across his face.

Surprise.

Maybe.

I wasn’t sure.

Then it disappeared.

“Careful, James.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Because the second people think you’re interesting enough to argue with…”

His gaze swept briefly over me.

“…they start paying attention.”

The words sent a chill through me.

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Attention wasn’t usually a good thing for me.

Still, I lifted my chin.

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

His eyebrow rose.

“You need people looking at you all the time.”

Another shocked sound came from somewhere behind him.

At this point I was pretty sure the entire school had stopped functioning to watch this train wreck unfold.

And then something strange happened.

The corner of Beckett’s mouth twitched.

Like he was fighting a smile.

It vanished so quickly I thought I’d imagined it.

“Get to class, James.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

The dismissal caught me completely off guard.

I expected another insult.

A comeback.

Something.

Instead he simply stepped aside.

The moment broke.

Confused and shaken, I turned toward my locker.

My hands trembled as I spun the combination.

The hallway noise gradually returned around me.

Conversations resumed.

People moved again.

But I could still feel it.

That uncomfortable sensation of being watched.

Of being noticed.

Of being exposed.

The locker finally clicked open.

I grabbed my books and tried to focus on breathing.

“Ella.”

I froze.

His voice came from right beside me.

Slowly, I turned.

Beckett was standing closer than before.

His friends were gone.

The crowd had moved on.

But he hadn’t.

Why?

“What?” I asked.

His eyes shifted upward toward my hair.

A strange expression crossed his face.

Something unreadable.

Then he reached toward me.

Instinct took over.

I flinched backward.

His hand stopped immediately.

For a brief second, irritation flashed across his features.

Not directed at me.

At himself.

“You missed one.”

I frowned.

“What?”

He pointed.

My hair.

Another spitball.

Apparently there had been more than one.

A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Not because anything was funny.

Because honestly?

What else was I supposed to do?

“Did I?”

His mouth tightened.

For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something else.

Instead, he dropped his hand.

“Never mind.”

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving me standing there confused.

Humiliated.

Angry.

And somehow more unsettled than I had been before.

Slowly, I reached into my hair and found the last spitball.

I stared after him long after he’d disappeared around the corner.

Because none of that had made sense.

Not one second of it.

⸻

By the time school ended, I had convinced myself it didn’t matter.

It was just another bad day.

Another entry in a very long list of bad days.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as I walked home.

Our neighborhood sat only a few blocks from school, which normally felt convenient.

Today it felt unfortunate.

Because no matter how bad school got, home wasn’t exactly much of an escape.

Mom worked constantly.

Dad was long gone.

Most days it was just me.

The closer I got to my house, the more I found myself thinking about this morning.

About Beckett.

About the way he had looked at me.

About the weird almost-smile.

About the fact that he stayed after everyone else left.

None of it made sense.

I hated that I kept thinking about it.

I hated that he occupied any space in my head at all.

Turning onto my street, I immediately spotted him.

Beckett.

Standing in his driveway.

Right next door.

Exactly where he had been for most of my life.

The realization hit me with unexpected force.

No matter how much I wanted to avoid him, I couldn’t.

Not really.

He wasn’t just the guy who made my life miserable at school.

He was my neighbor.

He lived twenty feet away.

Always had.

Maybe always would.

As if sensing me, he looked up.

Our eyes met.

For a moment neither of us moved.

The teasing wasn’t there.

Neither was the cruelty.

There was only that same strange look from earlier.

Like he was trying to figure something out.

I looked away first.

Of course I did.

I always did.

But as I climbed the front steps to my house, I could still feel it.

That weight.

That attention.

That awareness.

Following me all the way to the front door.

And for the first time in years, a thought slipped into my head that made my stomach tighten.

Maybe Beckett Cross wasn’t paying attention to me because he hated me.

Maybe something else was going on.

And somehow, that possibility felt even more dangerous.