Humbling Owen-Kyle
I didn’t talk to him; I didn’t think I would fit, or if he would talk to someone like me.
I didn’t even see him again that day.
But something had shifted.
Over the next two years, I’d learned who Owen Kyle was.
I learned that he was brilliant, effortlessly so. That teachers praised him, that students admired him, that his name carried weight in hallways and classrooms. I learned that he could be cruel, too, sharp words, calculated indifference, a way of making people feel small without ever raising his voice.
I learned to dislike that version of him.
I learned to hate what he represented.
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