By third period, Adrian had already stopped paying attention.
Not because he didn't want to—but because it never lasted. He'd try, at the beginning of class, every class. Sit down, take out a pencil, look at the board like it mattered.
Then the noise would start.
Not loud, not obvious. Just enough.
A chair scraping too close behind him. A pen tapping his desk once, twice, then stopping when he turned slightly. A whisper that wasn't quite quiet enough.
"…does he ever talk?"
"I think he physically can't."
"Ask him something."
Adrian kept his eyes on the worksheet in front of him.
The questions blurred together. Something about equations. Steps he knew how to do, or at least used to. Now they just sat there, numbers without meaning.
A small piece of paper slid onto his desk.
He didn't react.
Not right away.
The teacher was still talking, writing something on the board with her back turned. No one was looking directly at him—but that didn't mean anything. It never did.
The paper moved slightly, nudged closer to his hand.
Adrian exhaled slowly and picked it up.
Say one word.
He stared at it.
Behind him, a quiet laugh.
He folded it without reading it again and set it aside.
"Wow," someone whispered. "That's actually sad."
"Dude's broken."
Another tap—this time the back of a pen against his shoulder.
Adrian shifted forward in his seat.
"Hey," the voice said, a little louder now. "We're talking to you."
The teacher paused.
For a second, everything stilled.
Adrian could feel it—that brief moment where attention might shift. Where someone might actually notice.
He kept his head down.
"Is there a problem back there?" she asked, not turning around.
"No," the voice answered quickly. "We're good."
A couple of snickers. Then silence.
The teacher went back to writing.
Adrian looked at the paper again.
Say one word.
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the desk.
One word wouldn't fix anything.
It wouldn't stop it.
It would just… change it. Give them something new.
He'd learned that already.
So he stayed quiet.
************************************************
Lunch was worse.
It always was.
The cafeteria was too open, too loud, too full of places to look and people who didn't want to look back.
Adrian stood in line, tray in hand, staring past the glass at food he wasn't really going to taste anyway. Voices overlapped around him, conversations stacking on top of each other until none of them made sense.
He moved forward when the line moved.
Stopped when it stopped.
Routine.
Behind him, someone bumped his tray just enough to make it rattle.
"Careful," a voice said, not sounding careful at all.
Adrian didn't turn.
"You gonna drop it or what?"
Another voice, closer this time: "Nah, he won't. He's too scared to do anything."
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"Or maybe he just likes it."
A few laughs.
Adrian stepped forward with the line and didn't respond.
By the time he reached the end, his grip on the tray had tightened enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
He picked a table near the edge of the room. Not alone—never completely alone—but far enough that no one would choose to sit there unless they had to.
He sat down. Set the tray in front of him.
Didn't eat.
Across the room, someone laughed—loud, sharp, cutting through everything else.
His eyes flicked up before he could stop them.
There they were.
Same group. Same energy. Like nothing ever changed.
And for a second—just a second—he imagined what it would sound like if that laughter just… stopped.
Not faded.
Stopped.
The thought came and went so quickly it barely felt real.
Adrian blinked and looked back down at his tray.
His food had already gone cold.