He stepped out of class as the bell's echo faded. Students rushed past him—laughing, chatting, alive—but Jack remained still. The hallway emptied, and his presence lingered like a shadow cast long by streetlights.
His irises were a rich, dark brown, warm yet unreadable. The top of his head nearly brushed the doorway's frame. Hands tucked weakly into his pockets, his deep black hair stirred with the breeze moving through the open hallway.
Then a girl barreled into him—too fast, too careless. He stumbled into a locker; the clang resonated like a beat in the hush of his world.
"Watch it, loser!" she spat irritably before striding away without another glance.
Jack didn't react. He offered a quiet apology
"Sorry..."
His voice was soft, almost apologetic for a mistake he didn't truly acknowledge. As the girl vanished into the crowd, Jack straightened, adjusted his backpack strap, and kept walking.
No anger. No shame. Just a small, masked smile—something that flickered in his eyes before vanishing.
Because as far as he was concerned....
This was just another moment.
Another day.
Another reminder that even when surrounded by people... he still felt alone.
He stepped into the cafeteria—a warzone of chatter, clatter, and forced laughter. The noise didn't bother him. It never did.
But the moment Jack entered, the air shifted.
Dozens of eyes found him. Whispered jokes sparked like static. Giggles echoed against tiled walls. He didn't flinch. He never did. His steps were steady, quiet—his presence calm like still water before a storm.
He picked up a tray, moving to the food counter without a word. A group of boys stood nearby—loud, arrogant, careless. He felt it coming before it happened.
As he turned away, tray in hand, one of them "accidentally" slammed into him.
The tray flew. The cafeteria erupted.
Milk splashed. Plastic cracked. Silence followed—sharp, cruel, anticipatory.
Then, the laughter.
Phones lifted. Screens lit.
"Smile, loser!" someone shouted.
And Jack did.
A wide, perfect smile.
The kind that didn't touch the soul. The kind that made teachers turn away and bullies try harder. A smile he'd worn so many times, it had become armor.
"Sorry," he said softly, kneeling in the spilled mess. "My fault."
A younger student recorded it all.
Caption ready:
'Weakling gets wrecked—again.'
Jack picked up the fork first. Then the tray, now split. Then, quietly... the last fragile shard of dignity.
No one moved.
No one helped.
Just the Echoes of laughter
Because no one ever did.
He wore the smile until the final bell rang—
A quiet, broken armor.
Then he walked the halls not like a student, but like a ghost, one who had long since learned how to bleed without leaving a stain.
Lockers slammed.
Laughter echoed.
His name wasn't called anymore—just pointed at. Teachers didn't bother. He was there, but he wasn't seen. Just another shadow passing by.
Even the school itself seemed to reject him.
The posters on the walls faded slightly as he walked past, as if the color retreated from his presence. As if the world knew he didn't belong.
But home... was worse.
Dad called it "tough love."
Mom called it "discipline."
His little sister, eyes like knives, called him,
"the mistake they brought home."
They never had to say he was adopted.
The drawer with the papers remained locked
Right next to every unspoken disappointment that had his name on it.
Tonight, that drawer stayed shut.
But the front door didn't.
"Get out," Dad muttered, voice as flat as the empty beer bottle in his grip.
"We've got one real son. Don't need a charity case stealing our air."
No shouting. No rage.
Just tired hatred.
Jack stood silently on the porch, rain soaking through his hoodie, his hair pressed down like the weight of the sky itself had decided to fall on him.
He looked back once. At the house that was never his, not truly.
CLICK
The door locked behind him.
Final. Cold. Sharp.
A sound like the end of something he never got to begin.
He walked.
No destination.
No phone.
No plan.
Only the sound of his own heartbeat —
slowing,
dimming,
like the world was turning his volume down...
one notch at a time.
His feet moved, but his soul didn't.
Not really.
The cold didn't bite — it embraced him.
The wind didn't cut — it ignored him.
When he collapsed,
he didn't feel the ground.
Didn't feel the pavement.
Didn't register the way the gutter water soaked his knees, his palms, his chest.
Only one thought looped in his mind—
Soft. Poisonous. Hollow.
"If I vanish tonight... will anyone even notice the empty space I leave behind?"
Above him, a single streetlight flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went black.
As if the universe had whispered:
"No."
SPLASH.
His body hit the road, limp.
Unconscious.
Silence.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Deliberate.
He was no longer alone.
From the mist, a woman approached.
Unknown.
Unseen.
She stopped beside his collapsed body.
The light didn't return.
But her presence made the darkness feel... aware.
She looked down.
Her voice not heard, but felt.
The story had just changed.
And Jack would never be the same again.