Hadi was unusually quiet as they walked down the long corridor toward the main hall.
Too quiet.
Zayan noticed it after a while—the way Hadi kept glancing at him, as if measuring whether it was the right moment to speak. Zayan kept his eyes ahead, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. The polished floor reflected their steps, stretching them out like shadows that didn't quite belong to them.
Finally, Hadi exhaled.
"So," he said casually, a little too casually, "you and that guy. Harsh."
Zayan's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"You know him… right?"
Zayan didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened, and he slowed his steps without realizing it. Hadi noticed and adjusted his pace to match.
"You don't have to tell me," Hadi added quickly, softer now. "I'm just… curious. The way he looks at you—it's not new hate. It's old."
That word hit deeper than Zayan expected.
Old.
They reached the entrance of the hall, but Zayan stopped just before the doors. Students streamed past them, laughter echoing, bags slung over shoulders, lives moving forward without pause.
Zayan swallowed.
"I knew him before," he said finally.
Hadi didn't push. He just waited.
"He wasn't alone," Zayan continued, voice low. "There was always someone standing beside him. Watching. Never stopping anything."
Hadi's brows furrowed.
Zayan's fingers curled into fists inside his pockets.
"There were places," he went on, "where teachers didn't look. Places where silence mattered more than truth. I learned early that speaking didn't help. It only made things worse."
Hadi felt his chest tighten.
They started walking again, this time slower, the hall doors looming closer.
"He hated me," Zayan said. "Not because I did anything. Just because I existed the way I did."
Hadi clenched his jaw.
"People like that," he muttered, "can't stand mirrors."
Zayan let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh—but it broke halfway.
"I thought leaving all that behind would be enough."
Hadi stopped walking.
He turned to face Zayan fully now.
"Listen to me," he said firmly. "You didn't bring that mess with you. He did. And whatever he tries, you're not alone here."
Zayan looked at him then—really looked at him.
"You don't know that," he said quietly.
Hadi met his gaze without hesitation.
"I do," he replied. "Because I'm standing right here."
Something in Zayan's chest shifted. It wasn't relief. It was something more fragile.
They entered the class hall together.
---
The lecture had barely started when Harsh struck again.
A deliberate laugh.
A muttered comment.
A pen kicked under Zayan's chair.
"Careful," Harsh said loud enough this time. "Wouldn't want you collapsing again."
The room went silent.
Zayan froze.
Hadi stood up.
"Say that again," Hadi said sharply.
Harsh smirked. "Or what? You'll cry to the professor too?"
Before Hadi could respond, something snapped.
Zayan stood.
The sound of his chair scraping against the floor echoed louder than it should have.
Every head turned.
His heart was hammering so violently he thought it might tear through his ribs—but he didn't sit back down.
"You don't get to talk about me," Zayan said.
His voice shook at first.
Then it didn't.
"You don't get to follow me here, ruin this place too, and pretend you're untouchable."
Harsh scoffed. "Look at you—playing brave now?"
Zayan stepped forward.
"For years," he continued, louder now, "I stayed quiet because I thought silence would protect me. It didn't. It only gave you permission."
The professor had stood up now.
"So no," Zayan said, staring directly at Harsh, "I won't sit down. And I won't pretend anymore."
The room was dead quiet.
Harsh opened his mouth—
And that's when the professor cut in.
"Enough."
What followed was swift. Harsh's history surfaced—complaints, warnings, patterns. This time, there were witnesses. This time, there was no silence.
By the end of the hour, Harsh was escorted out.
Suspended.
Zayan sat back down, hands trembling, breath uneven.
Hadi leaned toward him and whispered, "I'm proud of you."
Zayan didn't trust himself to answer.
---
They went to the cafeteria afterward, both needing air, distance, something normal.
That's when Areeba noticed him.
She was sitting on a bench with her group, mid-laugh, fork paused in the air. Her eyes locked onto Zayan—and she smiled.
"There he is," she said, nudging the others.
Zayan hesitated, then walked over with Hadi.
"You survived," Areeba said lightly.
Zayan smiled, small but real. "Barely."
They talked—about class, about the chaos, about nothing and everything. For a while, Zayan forgot the weight in his chest.
Eventually, the group stood.
"Lecture time," Areeba said. "Don't disappear again."
She looked at Zayan as she said it.
He nodded.
When they left, the cafeteria felt quieter.
Hadi stretched. "We're free for the rest of the day."
Zayan hesitated. "I… want to go home."
Hadi studied him for a moment.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go."
---
Back at the house, Zayan didn't make it past the hallway.
The moment the door closed, his strength gave out.
He slid down the wall, breathing breaking, hands clutching his shirt like it might anchor him.
"I don't know why," he whispered, tears spilling over. "I don't know why it still hurts."
Hadi froze.
Then he knelt beside him.
"Zayan," he said gently.
Zayan shook his head. "I don't even know what I did wrong."
Hadi sat down fully now, shoulder to shoulder with him.
"Tell me," he said. "All of it."
And Zayan did.
Not neatly. Not in order.
Words came out tangled—fear, memories, confusion, anger. Things he never named. Things he never understood.
"I don't even know why they hated me," he finished hoarsely. "I just existed."
Hadi's throat tightened.
"That's why," he said quietly. "Some people hate what reminds them of their own emptiness."
Zayan covered his face.
Hadi stayed.
Didn't rush him. Didn't leave.
Just stayed.
And for the first time in a long time—
Zayan wasn't alone with the weight of his story.