Work Text:
Around the end of summer 2023, a few weeks before school started, a girl was sitting on the floor of her room looking at Instagram girls with their perfect bodies and beautiful faces. Then she saw a girl post something about back to school, which made her wonder if her senior year would be any different from the previous ones. As the days passed, each night, she stayed up later, scrolling through her feed, trying not to think about the first day. Her chest felt heavier every morning. She didn’t want to go back to school, but she didn’t have a choice. Two days before school started, she texted the only two friends she had made in the past five years, but they didn’t respond. It was the first day of school. She had just gotten off the school bus and was waiting in line to enter. All she could think was, “I want to disappear.” It was never, “I want to go home.” As she entered the school, it was already crowded. Walking through the hallway, she stared at the floor. She could feel eyes on her—though not in a good way. Walking felt suffocating. All she could do was hide, so she hurried to a bathroom stall and stayed there until the bell rang. She was in her first-period calculus class. By luck, one of her friends was in the same class.“Hey, Alexa!” Mary smiled, sliding into the seat in front of her. “Oh—hey, Mary. Been a while,” Alexa said, her voice softer than she meant it to be. She wanted to say more, maybe ask about Mary's summer, but before she had the chance, the teacher cleared his throat in the front of the room. “Alright, everyone eyes up here,” he says looking around the room for anyone who was still talking. The class fell into an uneasy hush as he began assigning permanent groups for the semester, four per table. Alexa’s stomach twisted. She hated being stuck in groups. After the shuffling of backpacks and her awkward attempt to be friendly. “Sixty pages,” he said. “You’ll be working through this semester. Weekly checkpoints, plus only quizzes.” The packet felt heavier than it looked. Alexa flipped to the first page, but the numbers and symbols swam on the paper. She blinked. Tried again. Nothing sucks. Her pencil hovered, unmoving. She glared around, everyone else seemed to be working already. Even Mary had her head down, scrubbing confidently. Alexa stared at her own black page. She knew this feeling too well: the mental fog, the quiet panic building in her chest, her heart racing, her leg shaking, her nail biting. She could ask for help. But the thought alone made her pulse race more. What if the question was dumb? What if they looked at her like she didn't belong here? She knew she couldn't, she knew words would come out shaky, with fear. So instead, she did what she always did, pretending like she understood and staying quiet. She walked to her next class, her eyes never left the floor, unless it was necessary. Alexa shuffled into the classroom with the rest of the students, keeping her eyes low and her hands gripped tightly around the straps of her backpack. The desks were arranged in rows here—no groups, no partners—just one student per seat. That should’ve been a relief, but somehow, it wasn’t. She scanned the room. Familiar faces from the previous years. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She would often forget why she would dislike them, but one glance at them looking at her, or them laughing while glazing her way would make her think that they were talking about her, making fun of her. Alexa took a spot near the back, next to the window, where she hoped no one would notice her. The seat felt cold, stiff, like everything else in the room. The class began soon after. Alexa tried to focus, but her brain felt foggy again—like she was underwater, hearing someone speak through glass. "Please fill out the index card with your name, pronouns, and something you’re interested in learning this year," the teacher said. Alexa stared at the card. Her pen hovered over the lines. Her name was easy. Pronouns too. But what was she interested in learning? The honest answer was: nothing. Not because she didn’t care—she just didn’t have the energy to pretend she did. She ended up writing: “Why wars start.” It was vague enough. Safe. Around her, the scratch of pens filled the room. Someone behind her giggled. Someone else whispered something that made others laugh. Alexa sat perfectly still, pretending not to hear. She wasn’t part of that world—never had been, she wasn't going to be for long. By the time the bell rang, her shoulders and back ached from how tense she’d been sitting. This was just the beginning of a cycle. English was next. The teacher seemed nice enough—young, enthusiastic, maybe too much for this early in the day. They talked about finding “your voice” through literature. Alexa wished she had one to find. When the teacher asked the class to introduce themselves with a fun fact, Alexa panicked, her hands began sweating, and she could hear her heart beating in her ears. But she ended up introducing herself and said she liked cats. Lunch was worse. She wandered the cafeteria for a full minute before sitting alone at the end of a half-empty table. The noise was overwhelming—laughter, shouting, chairs scraping the floor. Her food sat untouched while she scrolled through her phone, having conversations with her favorite bots. She kept her earbuds in, listening to Radiohead songs on repeat, on full volume. Agriculture was... fine. The classroom smelled weird. Most of the students already knew each other—FFA jackets, inside jokes, big smiles. She sat in the back and tried to look interested while the teacher talked about animal types and breeds. She didn't really hate the class, but it was better than the others, so far. Speech was the class she dreaded most. The teacher had a booming voice and seemed to enjoy calling on students at random. “We’ll all be giving short speeches in front of the class,” he announced cheerfully, “so get ready to speak up!” Alexa’s stomach dropped. Just the thought of standing up there made her vision blur. She spent the rest of the period trying not to cry, chewing on her thumbnail until it hurt. Her last class of the day was Dance. It used to be her favorite. The room was still the same—wide mirrors along the wall, polished wood floors that carried echoes of movement. It should’ve felt familiar. Comforting. But it didn’t. She stood by the wall, arms crossed, watching the others talk and joke with each other like they were already a team. She felt like no one noticed her, not really. A few glanced her way and then looked past her, like she’d walked into the wrong room. By the end of class, her chest was tight again. Not from the exercise—she hadn’t pushed herself—but from the familiar ache building behind her ribs. The one that always came when she remembered she didn’t belong. Even here. Especially here. The sky was blue and the sun was shining beautifully by the time she stepped onto the school bus. Same route. Same bus driver. Same vinyl seats, Nothing had changed. She slid into her usual spot—third row from the back, window seat. Alone. No one even glanced at her as she passed. Just backpacks, earbuds, and loud conversations that blurred into white noise. She placed her backpack on her lap and stared out the window, watching the familiar scenery slide past: chain-link fences, fast food signs, patches of dry grass. Houses with blinds drawn. Kids walking home in groups, laughing. It was quiet in her seat. Not peaceful, just empty. Her phone stayed in her pocket. No texts. No notifications. The bus made its usual stops. Kids got off in twos and threes, their voices trailing off into the street. When it reached her stop, she stood up slowly, her legs stiff, and got off. Her house was only a short walk away, but her feet felt heavy. She didn’t rush. There was nothing waiting for her. At home, she went straight to her room and then to the bathroom to take a shower. But first, she grabbed a small ring box. Inside that box was something that always eased her pain—or anything else that bothered her. She was in the shower putting shampoo in her hair before opening the curtain and grabbing the box ring that was on the sink, getting shampoo foam on the box. She opened it and inside was a single-edge razor blade. She grabbed it, putting the box back on the sink, and without hesitation, she started playing Fruit Ninja on her arms and thighs. The blood running down seemed so beautiful it was hypnotizing, but she was brought back to reality the moment the water touched her wounds, they burnt, stinging. But the pain seemed to calm her, in a way she could not express. That was her routine for the first few weeks of school—quiet, predictable, almost normal, just like the years before. But it all came undone one day in Speech class. They had to present in front of everyone. It wasn’t her first assignment, but it was the only one she’d actually have to stand and deliver. The others she’d quietly refused, hiding behind excuses or empty promises to “do it next time.” This time, there was no way out. She stood there, staring at the class. The projector hummed softly behind her. Her hands were trembling, palms damp. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her vision blurred. Then, before she even realized it, tears were falling. A few students snickered. She heard it—soft, sharp, unforgettable. Her throat tightened, her body frozen in place. Something inside her went still. The tears stopped, but not because she was calm. It was a feeling she couldn’t name—too heavy for sadness, too hollow for fear. She just stood there, suspended between silence and shame, not sure which one hurt more. The teacher’s voice sounded far away, muffled, like it was coming from underwater. The teacher handed her a tissue. She didn’t take it. When class finally ended, she walked out without looking at anyone. The hallway buzzed with noise—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter echoing off the walls—but it all felt distant, like she was moving through fog. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes were red, skin blotchy. She stared at her reflection until it stopped feeling like hers. Then she washed her face, tied her hair back, and left before anyone else could come in. The rest of the day passed quietly. Teachers spoke, papers shuffled, bells rang—but she wasn’t really there. Just her body, going through the motions. That night, lying in bed, she replayed it all in her head—the laughter, the stillness, the way her voice had abandoned her. She thought about how small she’d felt, how she always felt. And for the first time, she wondered if this was all her life would ever be—endless days of trying not to be seen. When she got home that afternoon, the air already felt too heavy. Her mother stood by the kitchen counter. The look on her face wasn’t concerned—it was that quiet kind of disappointment that stings more than yelling. “I got a call from your teacher,” she began, her tone sharp but laced with a mocking softness. “You froze? Couldn’t even speak in front of your class? What happened this time—stage fright?” The words twisted, almost like a joke. Her mother let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re going to have to grow out of this someday, you know. The world won’t stop because you’re shy.” She tried to respond, but her voice caught in her throat. The same way it always did—trapped somewhere between wanting to defend herself and knowing it wouldn’t matter. So she stood there, eyes fixed on the tiled floor, the echo of her mother’s laughter following her down the hall. She slipped into her room and closed the door gently, Her backpack slid from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. She didn’t bother to pick it up. The bed looked soft, but she sat on the edge instead—hands trembling in her lap, throat still tight from all the words that never made it out. She replayed it all—the classroom, the eyes staring, the silence that stretched too long. The heat crawled up her neck, the way her breath had caught like she was drowning in air. Then her mother’s voice again, weaving through the noise in her mind, turning her fear into something ridiculous. A small, broken laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t funny, not really, but it was all she could do. Somewhere inside, she thought maybe she’d get used to this—disappointing people. Maybe it would hurt less if she expected it. The sun had already dipped below the rooftops outside her window. Shadows filled the room, soft and familiar. She pulled her knees to her chest, rested her head there, and whispered a quiet apology to no one in particular. It was long past midnight, and sleep refused to come. Her mind kept circling back to the day—the humiliation replaying in endless loops, echoing the same pain she’d felt so many times before. Every memory bled into the next, too similar, too cruel. The weight of it pressed down on her chest until breathing felt like an effort. She was drowning in feelings she couldn’t name, couldn’t bear. And somewhere between deep inside her realized she’d had enough. The mockery, the whispers—they would never stop. She left her room and made her way to the kitchen, she grabbed a knife. It waits in the quiet hands to be given a purpose. Her mind went blank for how long she did not know, but when she came back to her senses she saw the blood spilling from her right arm. She panicked because she was making a mess in the kitchen. She ran to the bathroom, her steps were loud given the tile floors. Living a blood trail behind. She slammed the bathroom door and locked it, she got in the bathtub, and the blood had almost stopped, which upset her. She started crying out of frustration. She sliced her arm multiple times, and the blood flowed down her arm, now she was satisfied, happy, the freedom she had always wished for was finally coming true. She was so consumed by so many emotions that she didn’t realise she was losing her balance until she had hit the wall and then the bathtub. A loud bang echoed in the bathroom, and she tried to get up but found her arms too weak. She questioned herself, Did I lose so much blood already? Why am I so cold?. She finally got what she wanted but for her satisfaction, it was rather fast. She couldn’t even feel any pain given that she was so out of her mind or her brain just refused to feel any pain, it wasn't the only time this had happened, there were multiple times where she had cut herself and didn't feel any pain. Her sight began to get blurry and she slowly started losing consciousness. But before she did she said, “At last I will stop hurting”. Those were her last words. But this cruel world had other plans for her.