Life had never been kind to me. I learned that lesson early — too early for a kid who should have spent her childhood worrying about nothing more serious than homework. Growing up with parents who drank more than they loved left marks on me that no concealer could hide, both the kind you could see and the kind that lived somewhere underneath your ribs, aching at the worst moments.
By the time I was eighteen and stumbling through college, I thought I'd gotten used to the cruelty. I thought I'd built walls thick enough. I was wrong.
The hallways were the worst part. Wide, echoing, inescapable. Every time I crossed campus, I could feel their eyes — my classmates — scanning me the way predators scan the herd for the weakest one. And somehow, no matter how carefully I walked, no matter how small I tried to make myself, they always found me.
I still wake up some nights from the memory of that afternoon during the break between classes. I had been minding my own business, head down, arms wrapped around my textbooks like a shield, when they surrounded me. A group of boys, all easy grins and hard eyes, circling like this was a game they'd played before.
One of them grabbed my arm. Just like that — no warning, no hesitation — his fingers closed around my wrist and yanked me toward him. The textbooks scattered. I heard myself make a sound I wasn't proud of, something small and frightened.
They called me names I won't repeat. The kind that embed themselves in your memory like splinters, working deeper every time you try to pull them out. And then one of them shoved me hard against the lockers. The metal edge caught me in the ribs and the pain burst white and bright behind my eyes.
The girls nearby watched. Some of them laughed.
I stood there afterward, alone among the scattered pages of my notes, pressing my palm against my side where the bruise was already beginning to bloom. And I thought: I can't keep doing this. I can't keep walking into this every single day.
That was when I noticed Solomon Day.
He was leaning against his locker a few feet away, watching the hallway with the vaguely detached expression of someone who had already catalogued the world and found it deeply unimpressive. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't jeering. He simply existed in a kind of quiet, unhurried stillness that felt almost alien in these halls.
I'd noticed him before, in the periphery of my awareness — the boy who never participated. He wasn't popular, exactly, but he wasn't a target either. He occupied some neutral, untouchable middle ground that I desperately envied.
My heart was hammering so hard I was almost certain he could hear it. My palms were sweating. Everything inside me was screaming that this was a terrible idea, that asking for help from anyone was just giving someone else a chance to hurt you.
But I walked over anyway. Because I was running out of options.
"Um, hi there..." My voice came out barely above a whisper. I couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I know this might sound weird, but... could we maybe pretend to be dating? Just for show, I mean."
The words felt ridiculous leaving my mouth. I felt my face heat up to approximately the temperature of the sun. "It's just, maybe then the others would stop bothering me so much. If they think I have a boyfriend, they won't mess with me anymore."
I stood there, fidgeting with the strap of my backpack, waiting for him to laugh. Everyone always laughed eventually.
He didn't laugh.
He tilted his head back against the locker and let out a long, slow yawn — like this conversation was mildly exhausting rather than deeply strange. Then he adjusted his glasses with one deliberate finger.
"I suppose I can agree to this arrangement," he said, in a voice that suggested he'd already mentally moved on to something else. "But let's be clear: this isn't about someone 'owning' you. It's about making sure they simply stop bothering you."
He paused.
"In exchange, you will be my assistant to handle any tedious tasks that come my way. I don't like being busy."
He closed his eyes.
I stared at him for a moment. Then something unknotted in my chest — slowly, carefully, like a fist unclenching after holding on too long. It wasn't warmth, exactly. It was just... relief. The particular relief of someone who has been braced for impact and found nothing hit them.
"Yes, absolutely," I said. "I understand completely. And I'd be happy to help you with your tasks. Anything to keep the bullies off my back."
A small smile found its way to the corners of my mouth, so unfamiliar it felt like borrowed clothing. I pictured waking up without dread for once. No more bruises. No more crying in bathroom stalls.
"Thank you, Solomon." My voice trembled slightly with it. "Really, thank you."
He led me to the library, which I wasn't expecting. I also wasn't expecting him to nearly trip over his own feet getting there, or to drape his arm lazily in my direction.
"Hold onto me so I don't collapse from exhaustion on the way," he instructed.
I blinked. Then I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his forearm, careful not to grip too tightly. His sleeve was soft. Worn cotton, slightly warm.
We made an odd pair, I realized as we walked. I moved quietly by habit — years of practice trying not to draw attention had given me a kind of careful efficiency, like someone who always knows exactly where the exits are. Solomon moved as though gravity was a personal inconvenience he was only tolerating on a technicality. Every step looked like it cost him.
"So, um, what exactly do you need help with?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
He produced a notebook from somewhere in the depths of his bag. It was crumpled and ink-stained and looked like it had survived some kind of disaster.
"It's a tedious reflection paper that was due two days ago," he admitted, utterly without shame. "I need you to transcribe my messy notes into a coherent essay. Writing is far too exhausting for my current state."
I accepted the notebook and we found a table in a quiet corner — the kind of corner that felt carved out of the rest of the world, separate and still. I pulled out a chair for him out of instinct. He dropped into it with the relief of someone who had been waiting for that chair his entire life.
"I'll admit, my handwriting looks more like ancient runes than English," he said, peering at his own notebook with something approaching mild curiosity.
I looked at the pages. He wasn't wrong.
"Don't worry," I told him, opening my laptop. "I'll do my best to translate. And if I'm stuck, I'll definitely let you know so we can figure it out together."
He made a sound that might have been acknowledgment, or might have been the beginning of another yawn.
I started typing.
There's a particular kind of focus that settles over you when you have a task in front of you — a clean, absorbing focus that leaves no room for the things you're trying not to think about. For an hour, maybe more, I existed only inside Solomon's cramped handwriting and the click of keys. I occasionally glanced up, trying to decode a word, and found myself cataloguing small details without meaning to. The way his eyes narrowed behind his glasses when he was thinking. The slight tilt of his head. The soft, unhurried rise and fall of his breathing.
He let out a yawn that brought tears to his eyes.
"Forgive me, but I haven't had nearly enough sleep to function like a normal human today," he said.
I looked at him properly then. The shadows under his eyes were deep and real. His shoulders carried weight that had nothing to do with his bag.
I recognized that kind of tired. The bone-deep kind that doesn't come from one bad night.
"Why don't you try to get some rest?" I said gently. "I can finish transcribing the notes myself. It'll give you a chance to recharge a bit." I gestured at the stack of textbooks on the table. "You could use these as pillows. I promise I won't disturb you."
He considered this for approximately one second, then rested his head on the books.
"Just wake me up once you've finished," he murmured, already half gone.
I watched him for a moment before turning back to the screen. There was something unexpected about sitting here with him — this strange, exhausted boy who had agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend without asking a single unnecessary question. The library hummed quietly around us. Someone somewhere was flipping pages. Outside the high windows, the sky had turned the pale grey of late afternoon.
I typed the final period just as the light changed.