I remember when you first walked in.
Hair falling over your eyes, head lowered, shoulders tensed.
You moved like you were afraid of existing.
You barely spoke, flinching whenever anyone passed by.
You sat behind me, head lowered, trying not to be noticed.
At first, I thought you were just strange. Quiet in a way that didn't feel normal, like you were intentionally shutting the world out.
When I greeted you on the second day, you flinched so hard your pen slipped from your fingers. You didn't respond at all. Not even a nod. Just that sharp, immediate recoil like my voice had physically hit you.
Soon, people started talking.
"She thinks she's better than everyone."
"So rude."
"Why is she even here if she won't talk?"
I didn't correct them. I didn't understand you enough to defend you. And maybe, I told myself, you really were just unfriendly.
But then days passed.
And it stopped being just silence.
It became something heavier.
You were subjected to bullying in ways that didn't always look loud from the outside. A notebook "accidentally" knocked to the floor. A shoulder bump that sent you staggering. Whispered jokes that made people laugh when you walked past. And you… you never reacted. Not even anger. Just that same withdrawn stillness, like you had accepted that this was your place in the world.
You'd walk back into class sometimes with bruises on your arm or near your wrist. Once, there was a faint mark near your cheek. No one asked. Or if they did, it was only to mock.
You never cried.
Not once.
That confused me more than anything else.
I tried to help, in my own awkward ways. I asked if you were okay once, maybe twice. You never answered. You never even looked at me properly. It felt like I didn't exist to you, like I was just another sound in the background.
But I couldn't ignore you completely.
Because I kept noticing small things.
Like how you always chose the same seat.
How you always left the classroom last.
How you flinched even when someone laughed too loudly behind you.
How you sat so still, like moving too much would make you noticeable.
One day, I found you curled up in a corner down the hallway.
It was after school had ended, the building quieter than usual, lights flickering slightly overhead. At first, I thought it was just a shadow or a forgotten bag. But then I saw you properly.
Your knees were pulled close to your chest. Your arms wrapped around yourself tightly. Your head was down, hair falling over your face, hiding everything.
You weren't sleeping.
You were just there.
Existing in the smallest possible way.
I stood quiet, not knowing how to approach you without scaring you.
For a few seconds, I actually debated walking away. I didn't know you well enough to understand what was wrong, and I was afraid of making it worse.
Then I noticed you shivering.
That's when I saw it properly—your uniform was too thin for the weather. The air was cold enough that even I felt it through my jacket. I remember thinking, how do you survive like this every day?
Without fully thinking, I took off my jacket.
I walked slowly toward you, each step careful, unsure of how you would react. I remember my own hesitation, how I stopped a few steps away just to make sure I wasn't pushing too far.
Then I crouched slightly and gently placed the jacket over your shoulders.
You flinched hard.
Immediately.
Your body recoiled, pressing back into the wall like you were trying to disappear into it. Your breathing changed—fast, uneven. Your eyes widened, not with anger, but panic. Pure, instinctive fear.
For a moment, I froze.
I didn't understand why a simple gesture made you react like that.
I dropped to one knee, keeping distance between us, trying not to overwhelm you.
"I'm not here to hurt you," I whispered softly, hands slightly raised so you could see I wasn't reaching further.
You didn't respond.
You looked like you wanted to run, but your body wouldn't let you. Like you were stuck between escape and exhaustion.
That was the first time I really saw it.
Not rudeness.
Not pride.
Fear.
Deep, ingrained fear.
What hurt most was that you looked at me like I was danger.
I moved a little closer, slow enough that it almost didn't feel like movement. You backed away again, pressing more into the wall.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said again, softer this time.
My voice didn't seem to reach you.
I hesitated, then gently reached out.
Just to pat your hair aside.
The moment my fingers touched you, you folded inward slightly—like something in you shut down. But you didn't run. You just froze completely, staring at me silently as I carefully moved the hair from your eyes.
That's when I saw them properly.
Your eyes.
Hazel.
Tired.
Guarded in a way I didn't understand yet.
"I'm not here to hurt you," I whispered again, quieter this time, my hand lingering only briefly before I pulled away.
You stared at me for a long time.
Then, slowly, something shifted.
Not trust.
Not comfort.
But hesitation easing just slightly.
I offered my hand.
After a long pause, you took it.
And I helped you stand.
We walked back to class together.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And even though we didn't speak, I remember thinking—strangely—that you were starting to become comfortable with my presence.
Like I had become a quiet constant in a world that felt unsafe to you.
_________________________
Months passed. It's a year now. We were more closer.
You never told me your name, even when I asked.
At first, I thought you were just shy. Or maybe stubborn. But eventually I realized it was something else. Like names didn't matter to you. Like being known was dangerous.
I still couldn't figure out why you flinched when people talked too loudly or walked too close behind you. Why you always walked with your head lowered like the ground was safer than the world around you.
Sometimes, I would sit beside you in silence during lunch. You never complained. You just stayed there, eating slowly, carefully, like even that required focus. And sometimes, just sometimes, your shoulders would relax slightly when
I stayed nearby long enough.
But you never told me anything.
Even when I asked.
Even when I waited.
You never spoke about your past.
______________________
We talk now. Not much, but enough.
It started slowly. One-word replies. Small nods. Occasional glances that lasted longer than a second.
Then, one day, you spoke.
Your voice was quiet.
Almost uncertain it was allowed to exist.
And you said, "You're… my only friend."
I didn't understand at first.
I remember laughing lightly, thinking you were exaggerating.
But you weren't smiling. You were serious. And worse—you looked relieved that I didn't reject the idea.
You looked at me like I was your lifeline.
That realization stayed with me more than I expected.
I saw how you looked when I wasn't around.
Smaller.
Quieter.
More withdrawn.
And how your eyes changed when I came back—just slightly brighter, like something inside you was holding on.
Then one day, you asked me something I didn't know how to answer.
"If you ever find out about my past," you said softly, "would you still be my friend? Will you still stay?"
I stayed silent.
Not because I didn't care.
But because I didn't understand
why you were asking it like that.
Why it sounded less like a question… and more like a warning.
Then you smiled.
But it wasn't a real smile.
It was broken. Fragile. Like something carefully held together by habit alone.
And then you walked away without waiting for my answer.
_______________________
I don't know when it happened.
Maybe it was when she arrived.
My childhood friend.
We've been separated for years. She and her mother relocated after her dad died. Now she's back—still grieving the loss of her father, and her grandmother who passed away months before she returned.
I grew distant without even noticing it happening.
At first, it felt justified. She needed me. She was grieving. She had lost so much, and I told myself I was just being there for someone who had no one else in that moment.
So I stayed with her longer.
Answered her calls first.
Sat with her after school.
Walked her home.
Listened when she broke down in silence she couldn't explain.
And slowly, without realizing it—
I stopped noticing you.
Even when you tried to reach me.
Even when I saw you standing at a distance, waiting like you always did.
Even when you came to me once, bruised and shaking, trying to say something I never let you finish.
Even when your eyes searched for mine and didn't find them anymore.
I pushed you away without meaning to.
My attention was on my childhood friend.
She was grieving.
And she needed me.
And in the space I left behind…
You disappeared.
Not all at once.
But slowly.
Quietly.
Like you had learned that being seen was never safe in the first place.