The sun hung lazily over St Augustine Academy's courtyard that afternoon, spilling golden light across the manicured grass and the blooming cherry tree in the corner. Most students crowded the popular tables near the cafeteria doors, but Kevin Emilio Boyce preferred the quiet bench beneath the branches. Far enough away to be invisible.
He clutched his worn sketchbook to his chest as he walked, heart beating a little faster than usual. Inside were pages he hadn't shown anyone—not Vernon, not William, not even his parents. Page after page of quick pencil studies: the slope of a shoulder, the fall of curly hair, the exact depth of dimples when someone smiled.
All of the same girl.
Alice Tanaka.
He told himself it was just practice. A way to improve his drawing. A way to fill the empty hours after classes when everyone else had friends, rides home in shiny cars, plans. Harmless.
He reached the bench and sat, flipping open to a fresh page. The courtyard hummed with distant chatter, but here it was peaceful. He started sketching again—her eyes this time. Deep black, sharp even in memory.
He didn't hear them coming.
A sharp, mocking laugh sliced through the air first.
Kevin's pencil froze mid-stroke. He looked up.
Alice and her group were cutting across the courtyard, five or six of them moving like they owned every inch of sunlight. Designer bags, perfect posture, laughter that made heads turn. Alice walked in the center, shorter than the rest but impossible to miss—coffee-brown skin glowing, curls bouncing, those wide curves shifting with every confident step.
Kevin's stomach dropped. He closed the sketchbook quickly, too quickly, and shoved it halfway into his backpack. Too late.
One of the girls—tall, braids swinging, grin wide and dangerous—spotted him first.
"Ooh, what do we have here?" she called, voice dripping sugar and venom.
Before Kevin could stand, she was on him. A "playful" shove to his shoulder—light to her, hard enough to send him stumbling sideways off the bench. His backpack slid from his arm. Books hit the concrete with a thud. Papers scattered. The sketchbook tumbled out, landing open on the ground.
Alice stopped walking.
Her friends formed a loose semicircle, blocking any easy escape. A few other students nearby slowed, sensing drama, phones already slipping from pockets.
Alice's eyes narrowed on the open sketchbook. She stepped forward, heels clicking, and picked it up before Kevin could reach it.
For a second she just stared at the page—the half-finished sketch of her own face.
Then she flipped to the previous one. And the one before that.
Her raspy laugh cut through the courtyard, low and cruel.
"So this is what you do with your free time?" she said, holding the book up for her friends to see. "Creep on me? Draw me like some obsessed little freak?"
The girls around her erupted in giggles and gasps.
"Wow," one said. "He's got, like, twenty of these."
"Pathetic," Alice said, flipping another page. Her voice carried easily—that beautiful hoarse edge now sharpened into something deadly. "You really think you know me from staring across hallways? You don't know shit."
Kevin scrambled to his knees, gathering loose papers, face burning hotter than the afternoon sun. Acne prickling. Braces cold against his lips as he bit back any sound.
Alice tossed the sketchbook back at him. It landed hard against his chest. He caught it on instinct.
Another shove—this one from her—sent him sprawling backward. His palm scraped roughly across the concrete as he tried to catch himself. A thin line of fire bloomed across his skin. Blood welled up in tiny beads, trickling down his wrist.
He barely felt it.
The courtyard had gone quiet except for the whispers and muffled laughs. Phones flashed. Someone was definitely recording.
"Look at the nerd," a voice called from the growing crowd. "Totally obsessed."
"Classic loser move."
Alice looked down at him one last time, dimples nowhere in sight. Just cold disgust.
"Stay in your lane," she said quietly enough that only he could hear. Then louder, for the audience: "And stop drawing me like some weirdo."
She turned away, curls swinging, group falling in behind her like nothing had happened. They strode off toward the parking lot, laughter trailing behind them.
Kevin stayed on the ground a moment longer, gathering torn pages. Some were crumpled. A few had footprints. Blood from his palm smudged one corner of the sketchbook where he pressed it against his chest.
He didn't cry. He didn't yell.
He just breathed.
Slowly, he stood.
Vernon appeared from the edge of the crowd, eyes wide, hovering like he wasn't sure whether to approach.
"Dude… you okay?"
William was a step behind him, expression unreadable—something between pity and quiet calculation.
Kevin looked down at his bleeding palm, then at the ruined pages in his arms.
"I'm fine," he said, voice steady. Too steady.
He wiped the blood on his uniform pants, leaving a faint red streak.
"I just… want to finish my work."
Vernon opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but closed it again.
William said nothing, just watched as Kevin walked toward the nearest trash can and carefully—almost gently—smoothed out the least-damaged pages before sliding them back into the book.
Every whisper from the courtyard followed him like stones in his pockets.
Every smirk weighed on his shoulders.
But deep inside, beneath the sting in his hand and the heavier ache in his chest, something small and stubborn flickered.
Pain could cut skin.
Humiliation could crush pride.
But the part of him that saw beauty in her—even now—refused to die.
He pressed the blood-smudged sketchbook tighter against his chest and whispered to himself, so low no one could hear:
"I'll keep going. I'll become better."
And somewhere ben
eath the humiliation, a new kind of resolve took root.