BUZZ! BUZZ!

The violent rattle of his phone against the wooden tabletop startles Quynten, yanking him from the page and jerking his attention toward the screen. Though the device is on silent, the vibration alone is loud enough to pierce the fragile stillness of the reading room.

A sharp “Shhh!” cuts through the quiet like a blade.

His heart sinks.

He doesn’t need to look up to feel the eyes on him—annoyed, judging. He’s become that guy. The one who breaks the sacred silence of a space clearly marked SILENT READING AREA.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice tight as heat blooms in his chest and creeps up his neck.

He fumbles to press the side button, silencing the vibration. The phone stops buzzing, but the hum of humiliation lingers. He pulls it close, cradling it like a fragile secret, thumb hovering over the screen.

The number glares up at him.

Blocked? No—unblocked. But familiar in a way that sets his nerves on edge.

668. The area code tugs at something buried. 1-668-543…

He stares, waiting for his brain to place it, to make the connection.

Nothing.

No name. No contact photo. Just a string of numbers that shouldn’t feel as heavy as they do.

He lets it ring out, lets the call slide into voicemail—if the caller even bothers.

Still, the unease clings to him, like static after a storm.

His gaze flicks down to the time glowing on his lock screen—8:37 PM—bold, unforgiving numbers set against an intricate background image he’d saved from Pinterest weeks ago. A piece of digital art that stirred something in him—elegance and edge, all in one frame. He remembers leaving a comment, asking for the artist’s name. No one replied. Not surprising. Pinterest isn’t built for conversation, just silent admiration and collecting pretty things you may never touch.

It’s later than he thought.

The bookstore closes later on Fridays, sure, but still—he hadn’t meant to stay this long. He barely remembers the hours slipping by since school let out. The sky had still held the soft glow of early evening when he walked in, the sun lingering just above the rooftops. Now, as he glances toward the window, the world outside is cloaked in darkness. Streetlights blink to life, casting pale halos onto the sidewalk.

Fuck.

His teeth press hard into the inside of his cheek.

Fuck. Fuck!

His father is going to kill him.

That thought pulses like a siren in his head, drowning out everything else. No texts. No calls. He didn’t check in. He never had a set curfew, but his father operated on a different logic—one rooted in control, not rules. A sixteen-year-old boy with no friends, no social life, no valid reason to be out this late on a Friday night? Unacceptable.

“There’s no excuse,” is what his father will say, no matter how Quynten tries to explain it. And maybe—maybe—he’s right.

Still, his stomach coils tighter as the seconds tick by. He moves to slip the book he’s been reading back onto the shelf—a contemporary novel that’s been sitting on his list for weeks. He’d finally gotten around to it. And just like that, he’s interrupted by a presence.

Tall. Solid. Close.

Someone’s standing just beside him, not quite touching, but hovering. He doesn’t look up right away, but the weight of the man’s presence seeps into his skin like cold.

There’s a voice. Low. Smooth. Unsettling in its ease.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The sound sends a shiver down Quynten’s spine—not from the voice itself, but from the intention threaded through it. There’s a smirk beneath the words, curling through the syllables like smoke. The man isn’t old, but definitely older—maybe by a year or two. Old enough to know better.

“Seems kinda late for a small thing like you to be out,” the man purrs. “Got a ride coming to get you? Because I could give you a lift. Free of charge.”

He chuckles, and the words free of charge drip with suggestion. Not kindness. Not safety. Something else.

Quynten’s stomach turns.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet. He knows what this is.

He’s been here before.

It’s always the same—men catching a glimpse of him from the back or side, long hair brushing his waist, soft frame, small stature. A silhouette they mistake for something else. Something they want.

They don’t see a boy. Not at first.

And when they do?

That’s when it turns.

When he speaks, when they finally catch the full view of his face, everything sours. The interest curdles into revulsion, and the men recoil as if he’s done something to them. The names come next—sharp, cruel, meant to hurt.

Faggot.
Freak.
Trap.

But he never lied. Never pretended.

I didn’t do anything, he would tell himself, over and over, long after the encounters faded into memory.

But that doesn’t matter. It never does.

The first time it happened, he was twelve.

He’d been walking home from school in his uniform—navy polo, khaki pants, and a bookbag patterned in blue and white slung over his shoulder. His hair was down that day, long and untamed, brushing the middle of his back as it caught the breeze with each step.

He remembers the sound of cars rolling past, the weight of his books pulling against his spine, and the moment he stepped off the curb to cross the street.

Then came the whistle.

“Hey, beautiful!” a voice called out—sharp, playful, too sure of itself.

Quynten froze mid-step. For a second, he assumed it couldn’t be directed at him. Had to be someone else. But the street was empty except for him, and the voice came again—closer now.

“Yo, what’s your name? Hey! Wait up!”

Before he could move, before he could think to run or respond or pretend he didn’t hear it, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

Time slowed.

The boy—older, much older—loomed over him. Broad-shouldered. Tall. High school-aged, maybe seventeen. The kind of age that made twelve feel unbearably small.

Quynten caught the flash of confusion first—the way the boy’s face twisted, as if his brain needed a second to catch up. Then it curdled. Pale skin, curled lip, eyes narrowing into something mean and seething.

Disgust bloomed across the boy’s features like a storm cloud swallowing the sun.

And then came the blow.

A fist slammed into Quynten’s stomach, folding him in half before another collided with his face, snapping his head sideways. His knees hit the pavement. He collapsed onto his side, clutching his ribs, gasping through the sudden, jagged pain.

The blood in his mouth tasted metallic and thick. His lip throbbed. His vision blurred.

“Fuckin’ freaky ass pussy!” the boy spat, voice dripping with venom as he sent another kick into Quynten’s side.

The words rang in his ears for days afterward.

Freaky.
Pussy.

They echoed inside him like a brand burned into skin. He couldn’t shake them. Couldn’t stop feeling like he was wearing them—on his chest, his back, his face. As if those words were tattooed onto him, invisible but undeniable. A warning label for the world.

After that, people still looked at him. But it was different.

Sometimes it was pity, thinly veiled beneath furrowed brows and hushed voices—“too small,” “sickly,” “poor thing.” Like he was something breakable.

Other times, it was admiration, but the hollow kind. The kind that didn’t come from care or kindness.

“You’re so exotic,” they’d say. Like he was a rare pet. A curiosity. A decoration.

Not a person. Not a boy.

Never that.

Over time, it all became numb.

The stares, the comments, the half-hearted flirtations from men who knew—knew he was a boy, yet still tried anyway. Maybe it was a dare. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe they just didn’t care.

Whatever the reason, Quynten learned to navigate it with a practiced indifference. Sometimes he got the last word. Other times, they did—leaving him either quietly shattered or eerily detached. He learned not to show emotion. That’s what they wanted, after all. A reaction. A crack.

Tonight, as the overconfident fuckboy looms beside him—exuding that all-too-familiar faux swagger, the kind that hopes a smirk and a one-liner might earn a phone number or more—Quynten doesn’t feel fear.

He feels annoyed.

Irritation coils in his gut, hotter than any anxiety. It festers as he imagines the look on the guy’s face—cocky grin, bedroom eyes, convinced he’s God’s gift to women… or in this case, whoever he thinks he’s talking to.

Quynten lets out a quiet snicker as he turns in his chair to face him fully, arms folding over his chest with leisurely confidence.

“I don’t know what to say,” he begins, his voice smooth, sarcastic. “I mean, as flattered as I am, that was God-awful.”

He tilts his head slightly, flashing a grin just as smug. “Got anything actually good up your sleeve, or was that it?”

The guy startles—an almost comical double take. His face goes red and pale in the same breath, lips parting in slack-jawed disbelief.

“The fuck?!” he blurts, loud enough to earn an aggressive “Shhh!” from one of the nearby patrons. He doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care.

Quynten just rolls his eyes and lets out a soft snort.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, voice low, polite even.

“You’re... you’re a guy?!”

“And you’re great at stating the obvious and being a complete creep.” Quynten leans back, angling his chin so he can look up at him with a crooked smirk. “Want a medal?”

The guy’s brow twitches. His jaw sets. There’s tension in his frame—coiled frustration, the kind that makes Quynten’s skin tighten in anticipation. If this weren’t a public setting, he might’ve tried something more than words.

Instead, the guy barely restrains himself, shaking with thinly veiled disgust. “Why do you look so—?”

“So what?” Quynten cuts in, tone sharper now.

“Like a fuckin—”

But whatever slur he was winding up to unleash dies in his throat as two more guys—his comrades, clearly—saunter over, laughter spilling from them like cheap cologne.

“Yo, you really fell for it,” one of them snickers, clapping their flustered friend on the back. “Took it like a champ, though.”

“A champ!” the other echoes, nearly wheezing with laughter.

Of course. A prank.

It was never about interest. Never even about him. Just another joke. A setup.

Quynten watches them walk off, the ringleader grumbling as he storms ahead.

“I can’t believe I let you idiots talk me into that!” he shouts, voice cracking in a mix of embarrassment and fury.

Quynten doesn’t respond. Just watches them go, jaw clenched, expression unreadable.

And don’t let the door hit you on the way out, he thinks, eyes narrowed.

Fucktards.