I wasn't built for this school.

  Or maybe the school wasn't built for people like me.

  Either way, we'd come to a quiet agreement: I show up, stay out of sight, and let the clock do the rest.

  It wasn't always like this. I used to think things would mean something; grades, friends, clubs, the future. But meaning is a tricky thing. If you ask too many questions, it slips through your fingers. Like wind through your open palm on a rooftop.

  I ended up here, at this forgettable school in this forgettable town, not by choice. My folks moved here for work-dad said it was a "fresh start." I didn't ask what we were starting over from. I didn't care. A fresh start's just a prettier way of saying you're running from something.

  By the time I was halfway through second year, I had no club, no friends, no future plan. Just a corner of the rooftop that no one else bothered to claim, a pack of cigarettes I could barely afford, and the habit of watching clouds between classes. My grades were just good enough to keep the teachers off my back, and my face was just blank enough for people to forget the moment I looked away.

  That didn't mean the school was peaceful.

  Not at all.

  We weren't the worst school in the district, but we were the quiet one. The kind that didn't make trouble. Well, some of the boys also a jerk sometimes. But there were one that crossed my mind in last couple of weeks. Sylvancrest High, the school full of loudmouth punks who treated us like background characters in their own drama.

  They showed up a lot lately, swaggering by our gate like they owned the place. Most days, they talked trash, cat calls-teasing the girls by grabbing their bike or bag on their way home. Some of our guys tried to fight, sure, and they just being a punching bags.

  Me? I wasn't a hero. I'd take a few hits here and there, usually when things went too far, but I wasn't about to get dragged into some pointless brawl. I wasn't stupid enough to get into a bigger mess than I had to.

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  I let them think they had power over me. Let them toss their insults or shove their weight around. I wasn't going to lose my head. A quick hit, a smart remark, then I'd move on.

  It was funny, though. When those punks from Sylvancrest tried to get serious-when they thought they could force a real fight on us, I was the guy who stepped in. Not because i had some deep loyalty to the school. I just knew when to stand tall and when to dodge the bullet-I wish, but actually. It was just that bad luck I've had.

  One time, few of our guys were getting cornered by some punks behind the gym, and they were getting pushed around. I was on my way back home. I didn't even blink. I walked right over, took a hit to the stomach, and took down the biggest guy with one clean shot to the jaw. In the end, we got ganged up and ended up bruised and beaten. But I take down few of them at the very least.

  It wasn't about winning or losing. It was about surviving. About keeping your head when chaos is lingering around you. I wasn't in this school for the glory or the fights. I didn't care if anyone thought I was tough. I was just trying to make it through, one day at a time.

  Late afternoon, outskirts of town. The air is thick with dust and fading sunlight. The kind of silence that makes you aware of your own footsteps.

  The road home stretched out like it always did. The street curved past an old shuttered shop, its windows covered in yellowing newspapers, same road with the crumbling fences and graffiti-tagged walls. I didn't think much of it, this road wasn't new to me. I took it often when I wanted to avoid the noise near the market, the crowds, the stares.

  Then I noticed him. Or more like, I noticed something.

  By the side of a trash can, halfway in the shadows, there was a guy slouched against the wall. Bruised. Bloody lip. His school uniform was a mess. But one thing for sure, it wasn't ours. He had one leg stretched out and the other pulled up. A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers.

  He didn't look like someone waiting for help.

  He looked like someone who'd just finished giving a beating, or taking one. It's not my problem.

  I didn't stop.

  But he looked up at the exact moment I passed. And our eyes met.

  Just for a second-it felt like a scene out of a film I didn't sign up for. No words. Just that one glance. Something between detached curiosity and the kind of pride that doesn't beg for sympathy.

  I clicked my tongue, turned my eyes away, and kept walking.

  Didn't know who he was. But something about him stuck with me the rest of the way home.