SIGH...
People don't bully you because you're weak.
They bully you because they've already decided who you are—and they hate that version.
I didn't know that at first. I thought if I stayed polite, stayed helpful, stayed quiet, things would even out. That people would eventually realize I wasn't what they assumed.
That was naïve.
Well, My name is Jonas.
I don't say that out loud much. Saying your name invites opinions. And opinions turn into expectations faster than anything else.
From the outside, I already failed them.
Too clean.
Too put together.
Too calm.
People like chaos in others. It makes them feel normal.
The first week of college, I helped everyone.
Notes? I shared them.
Group project? I did more than my part.
Someone missed a lecture? I stayed up late explaining it.
They smiled while taking. They always do.
"Thanks, man."
"You're a lifesaver."
"You're actually cool."
Then the smiles changed.
It started with jokes said around me instead of to me.
"Must be nice not having to try."
"Bet teachers go easy on him."
"Guys like that always have backup plans."
I didn't understand what I'd done wrong.
So I tried harder.
I laughed at jokes that cut a little too close.
I pretended not to hear my name paired with sarcasm.
I kept helping.
That's when they learned something important about me.
That I wouldn't fight back.
And people get angry when you don't behave the way they want you to.
If I stayed quiet, I was "stuck-up."
If I spoke, I was "showing off."
If I helped, I was "trying to look good."
There was no version of me that didn't offend them.
Once, during a group presentation, someone forgot their part. I stepped in smoothly, filled the gap, saved the grade.
After class, he laughed and said, "Bro thinks he's the main character."
Everyone laughed.
I smiled too.
That night, my name disappeared from the group chat.
I started eating alone after that.
Not dramatically. Not sadly. Just… intentionally.
Behind the humanities building, there was a narrow stairwell that smelled like dust and old rain. No one went there unless they were hiding from something—or someone.
I liked it.
No eyes. No assumptions.
That's where I noticed her.
Not because she was loud.
Because she wasn't pretending.
She sat on the top step like the world didn't deserve politeness from her. Hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. A faint scar ran from just below her ear down toward her collarbone—thin, pale, like something that had healed badly.
She wasn't beautiful in the way people talk about.
She was sharp. Unapproachable. The kind of presence that made people uncomfortable because it didn't ask to be liked.
I didn't speak to her.
I just existed near her.
For three days.
On the fourth, I learned what happens when you get too close to someone already marked.
I heard it before I saw it.
"Why's he sitting with you?"
She didn't answer right away.
I was staring at the concrete like it might open up and swallow me.
"He's not sitting with me," she said flatly. "He's sitting there."
A pause.
"That your new charity case?"
Something cold settled in my stomach.
I stood up. "It's fine. I'll—"
"Sit down," she said.
Not gently.
The voice belonged to a girl standing a few steps below. Smiling. Perfect hair. Perfect tone. The kind people listened to.
"You help everyone, right?" she continued.
"Always so nice."
I nodded without thinking.
She tilted her head. "Then help yourself and leave."
Laughter followed. Quiet. Approved.
I didn't look at the girl beside me as I walked away.
That night, I replayed it over and over.
What did I do wrong?
I didn't insult anyone.
I didn't show off.
I didn't even speak.
That's when it clicked.
Getting along with people didn't make them like me.
It made them feel threatened.
The next day, someone asked me for notes again.
I hesitated.
Then I sent them anyway.
By evening, screenshots of my messages were floating around—mocked, edited, turned into jokes.
"Look how formal he texts."
"Trying so hard to sound nice."
"Fake as hell."
I stopped responding after that.
On the sixth day, I found a note on my desk.
Must be exhausting pretending all the time.
I didn't know who wrote it.
But I knew they were watching.
When I went back to the stairs, she was there again.
Same place. Same posture.
This time, she looked at me first.
"You don't learn fast, do you?" she said.
I swallowed. "I'm trying to."
She scoffed softly. "That's your problem."
I sat anyway, a step lower this time. Not beside her.
"I don't think people hate you," she added after a while. "They just hate that you won't break the way they want."
I finally looked at her scar.
She noticed.
"You want to ask," she said. "Don't."
I nodded.
Silence stretched.
Then she said, quieter, "They did this when I fought back."
I didn't respond.
Not because I didn't care.
Because I didn't trust my voice not to shake.
For the first time, I realized something worse than being hated.
Being chosen as a lesson.
And somehow, without touching, without smiling, without even exchanging names—
I knew.
This wasn't going to end gently...Fuck..