Evan's morning had started like something out of a dream—one of those rare, perfect days. The sun was warm but not scorching, the breeze playful rather than pushy. Even breakfast had been a victory: chocolate-chip pancakes, the kind where the chips melt into little pockets of happiness. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ruin this.
He strolled through the school gates, music pumping through his headphones, soaking in the familiar sights and sounds—students laughing, lockers slamming, teachers clutching coffee cups like lifelines. It was just another day.
Until it wasn't.
A hush had swallowed the hallway, replacing the usual morning chaos with something colder, heavier. A cluster of students stood frozen near the entrance, their expressions shifting from curiosity to fear. They weren't just whispering—they were barely breathing.
And then he saw it.
The stretcher.
At first, his brain grasped at ordinary explanations. Maybe someone had passed out, maybe an accident in gym class. But as he stepped closer, those flimsy hopes unraveled.
The body lay still. Too still.
A sheet covered the face.
The air tightened around him. His perfect morning shattered.
Someone was dead.
Here. In his school.
6 months later
EVAN
These past six months have been tough. My girlfriend, who I thought was my ride or die, dumped me out of the blue. Math is now boring for me, and for the record, it used to be fun. My grades are dropping significantly, so much so that my teacher constantly asks me what's wrong. My eyes feel as though they are going to shut down immediately all day, but when I want to sleep, I can't. I used to be a healthy boy, just the perfect weight for my height. But now, I look and feel the size of a mouse. I used to be great at football, one of the best to be honest, and now I play as though it's my first time and I'm blindfolded. And it's all because of one thing.
Jay. Another guy on the football team. We were never close really, but seeing him carried on that stretcher, under those sheets, just scarred me for life. At least once every day, it dominates all my thoughts. What hurt him so much that he decided to take his own life? And why didn't he speak to someone about this? It's been six months, and to this day, it still frightens me.
Today has been especially hard. My teacher gave us a surprise pop quiz which I failed miserably, and throughout the whole exam, my best friend, Miguel, had been signaling for help, even though he knows that I don't know the answers myself. Even the cafeteria lady wanted to make life hell for me. Today was meatloaf day, and everybody knows that my school's meatloaf tastes as though it has been through a hundred stages of grief. And just when I thought that it couldn't get any worse, I realized that I had to stay back at this prison for another two hours.
I stepped onto the field, the familiar turf beneath my feet a stark contrast to the uncertainty that had been gnawing at me. My teammates' eyes met mine, their usual banter and jokes replaced with nods and quiet hellos. The coach's gaze lingered on me, a mix of concern and expectation. I knew I'd been off my game lately, and it showed in every stumble and misstep. My teammates tried to help me find my rhythm, covering for me and offering words of encouragement. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was letting them down. As we ran through drills, I felt like I was fighting a step behind, my movements labored and uncoordinated. The practice session ended, and the coach's voice was softer than usual, his praise for my effort genuine but tempered. My teammates clapped me on the back, their faces a blur of concern and support.
The minute I reached home, I collapsed on the sofa, tired from all the torture I faced in school today.