Monday morning clawed its way into Ravenstone High with a thick air of cruelty.
Susan walked through the gate, her heart already in shreds before the first bell even rang.
Her wet, humiliating performance had gone viral overnight.
Clips were shared across group chats, social media, even posted anonymously on the Ravenstone Confessions page.
The title read:
"Tragedy on Stage: Susan's Breakdown! LOL!"
Memes had been made.
Jokes written.
New nicknames whispered across hallways — Soaked Susan, Cringe Queen, Dumpster Poet.
As she walked through the corridor, laughter erupted from the lockers.
Phones were shoved into her face.
Snickers trailed her every step.
Jessica and her loyal minions, Tanya and Amanda, stood leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, basking in their latest masterpiece.
Jessica's designer jacket shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, her manicured fingers scrolling casually through the dozens of mocking comments.
"Look who survived the flood!" Tanya called out, sending a wave of fresh laughter.
Susan kept walking.
Each step heavier than the last.
---
In History class, it didn't get better.
Mr. Cullen, the young, absent-minded teacher who usually kept his nose buried in dusty books, barely glanced at Susan as she slipped into the farthest corner of the room.
She pressed herself against the wall, wishing she could melt into it.
Beside her, Jackim sat quietly, head down, hoodie pulled tight around his face.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look.
But somehow, his silence was different.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Protective.
---
At lunch, things got worse.
Susan sat alone at the edge of the cafeteria, picking at a cold sandwich she couldn't stomach.
The tables around her were packed — the beautiful girls, the rich boys, the jocks, the party lovers, the campus crushes.
Everyone had someone.
Everyone belonged.
Everyone except her.
A group of senior boys swaggered past, knocking her tray to the floor.
"Oops," one of them sneered.
Susan bent down to clean up the mess, her hands trembling.
No one helped.
No one even looked.
Only Jackim — sitting two tables away — caught her eye.
His jaw clenched tight.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
Not when he was still nothing more than another ghost in their twisted high school kingdom.
---
Later, in the girl's bathroom, Susan locked herself in a stall, clutching the cracked sides of the toilet seat, breathing hard.
The door banged open.
Voices filled the space.
Jessica, Tanya, Amanda — laughing.
"I heard she's still coming to the Winter Gala!" Tanya mocked.
Jessica snorted. "Maybe she'll wear a garbage bag this time. It suits her."
More laughter.
More bile rising in Susan's throat.
"Maybe we should help her get ready," Amanda said wickedly. "A little makeover."
Susan squeezed her eyes shut.
Her chest heaved.
---
When the girls left, Susan stumbled out.
Her reflection in the mirror made her flinch.
Pale skin.
Hollow eyes.
Clothes that hung on her too-thin frame.
You're nothing, the mirror seemed to say.
You will always be nothing.
---
That afternoon, as she dragged herself toward the school gate, she heard footsteps behind her.
Turning, she found Jackim there, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his expression unreadable.
He didn't speak for a moment.
Then, quietly, he said,
"You coming tomorrow?"
Susan hesitated.
"To what?" she rasped.
Jackim shrugged. "Football game. Big deal. Everyone'll be there."
Susan blinked at him.
Why would she go to a place where they would only laugh harder?
Where she would be a bigger joke?
But Jackim's eyes held something else.
A quiet rebellion.
A flicker of defiance against the cruelty that ruled their world.
Maybe he wasn't inviting her to watch the game.
Maybe he was inviting her to fight back.
---
Susan looked down at her worn sneakers.
Her cracked fingernails.
Her bruised heart.
And then, for the first time in months, she made a decision.
"I'll be there," she whispered.
Jackim gave a rare, crooked half-smile.
"Good."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Susan standing there — broken, battered, but still breathing — as the dying light painted the horizon in bruised shades of purple and red.
---