He stormed back to class, his anger bubbling up. Losing the phone wasn’t the worst part—it was the control, the constant surveillance.

"How is it even legal for female teachers to follow male students into the bathroom?"

The bitterness lingered as the oppressive rules closed in on him. Every move was watched, every action judged. It felt like Mrs. Grantham was just out to get him. He had to get out—he wasn’t meant for this place.

The thought burned in his mind. He had to find a way out. He couldn’t stay here. He wasn’t meant for this place.

By the time lunch rolled around, Terrence was running on anger and blind frustration. He tried to pretend he didn’t care. That he hadn’t spent half the morning being stared at like a contaminated lab rat.

Genevieve and Augustin moved through the cafeteria like they were actual royalty—everyone parting to make room, like they came with their own invisible fanfare. Their friends hovered like satellites, laughing too loud and smiling like everything was perfect

Terrence stayed on the outskirts, watching. Cool. Royalty gets gold crowns, and I get cafeteria exile.

No one spoke to him. What started as whispers had turned into full-on judgmental stares. You’d think he’d stolen a baby or something.

'Bro, what did I even do? Does everyone know about me?'

He had half a mind to just sit under a table and wait for this social purgatory to pass, but then—opportunity. A group of girls had been eyeing him since the first period. Probably liked the whole “bad boy, maybe a felon” vibe.

He smirked. Well, well, maybe today won’t be a total L.

He slid into the seat beside one of them—the brunette with the perfect eyeliner and the kind of bored expression that screamed please give me something to talk about.

He flashed his most charming smile. The one he reserved for house parties and get-out-of-trouble moments. She actually blushed.

Still got it.

Things were looking up… until one of Genevieve’s little council minions sauntered over and whispered something into the brunette’s ear. Something serious. Terrence watched in real time as every girl at the table looked at him, looked at each other, stood up, and walked away.

He blinked.

Wow. Harsh.

Guess Genevieve’s friends are keeping tabs on me. Cool. Awesome. Normal. Must be one of the tasks she had been assigned to prevent me from acting out.

Weren’t they in college? Shouldn’t they be able to decide for themselves if they wanted to talk to me? Or did Genevieve already know about the whole “womanizer” thing? Maybe that’s what this was about. Keeping me at arm's length, making sure no one gets too close.

So there he was, eating alone. Again.

At least the food looked like something rich people fed their lap dogs—gourmet greens, tiny bread rolls, and some kind of roasted vegetable medley that looked like it cost someone’s tuition.

Free lunch is still free lunch, he told himself, stabbing a roasted baby carrot with vengeance.

He reached into his pocket, instinctively going for his phone—then stopped. Right. It had been confiscated earlier. He hoped he had no new messages. Of course not. He hadn’t checked the ones piling up from D.C. either. He didn’t want to. Seeing those texts would just remind him that he wasn’t there anymore. That his friends were back to their normal lives while he was stuck here, playing the part of the reluctant new kid in a fancy private school. Did they even remember him? Or was he already fading from their minds like just another passing phase?

When the final bell rang, Terrence bolted.

He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back. He needed out.

He had stashed his skateboard inside his backpack like it was a sacred relic. The last piece of himself that still felt like him. Something no one here had touched, critiqued, or tried to fix.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, it was like oxygen filled his lungs again. The wind in his face, the wheels beneath him—finally, something made sense. The familiar hum of movement grounded him. Everything else—the polished walls of Dreswood, the disapproving looks from his classmates, the pressure of expectations—faded into the background.

But it didn’t last.

He veered too far off campus, chasing the tail end of freedom. Ended up in the wrong part of town—rough edges, rusted fences, a bar that looked like it doubled as a fight club. A few guys were outside. Older. Rougher. Terrence rolled to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk, the wheels of his board clicking against the pavement. The men leaned against the fence, their eyes narrowing as they took in his appearance. One, tall with tattoos snaking up his arms, pushed off the metal and stepped toward him.

They took one look at him and instantly didn’t like him. "Lost, kid?" His voice was low, assessing.

Terrence straightened, trying to project confidence. "Just out for a ride."

The second man, shorter and stockier, eyed the Dreswood emblem on Terrence's sleeve. "Dreswood, huh? What are you doing here?"

"Needed a break," Terrence replied, his grip tightening on his board.

The taller man smirked, stepping closer. "You think you're different 'cause you go to that fancy school?"

Terrence met his gaze, trying to stay calm. "I'm just trying to get away from all that."

The stocky man snorted, grabbing the board from Terrence's hands. "Away from what? Your privilege?"

He tried to explain—reform student, not a snob, not like the others. Didn’t matter. The Dreswood emblem on his sleeve might as well have been a target.

Before Terrence could react, the man snapped the board over his knee. The sound of cracking wood echoed in the quiet street.

"Now you really don't belong here," the tall man said, his voice dripping with disdain.

The stocky man stepped closer, towering over him. “Take it as a lesson,” he said coldly, tossing the splintered board at Terrence’s feet. “Next time, don’t come running where you don’t belong.”

Terrence bent down, picking up the fragments, his hands shaking. He didn't speak, just turned and walked away, the weight of the encounter settling heavily on his shoulders.

They broke his board. Just like that. Cracked it clean down the middle like they were snapping a toothpick.

Terrence didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just stared at it. At the last piece of freedom he had left, lying in pieces on the street like roadkill. The one thing that had been his, now broken beyond repair.

Cool. Awesome. Totally fine. I'm not spiraling, you're spiraling.

He stayed out there long after the sun dipped. Tried to pretend he was fine. That he didn’t need them. That he didn’t need anyone.

But as the cold crept in and the sky turned navy, it became clear. He had nowhere to go. No friends. No food. And not even his parents’ voices to reach out to.

He’d told himself he’d figure out a way back home to prove them wrong. That he’d keep his head down, play the game, find a loophole—something. But every step forward hit another wall. 

Every door he tried had been slammed before he even touched the handle. And, for the first time, he realized that was never going to happen. Maybe he was supposed to feel grateful, like Carter said. But that was hard to do when everything in his chest felt like it was being squeezed, and all he could see was the strange distance between the house he was supposed to call "home" and the one he used to know.

Eventually, pride stopped keeping him warm.

He walked back—broken board in hand, shoes soaked somehow, every step heavier than the last. He didn’t come back because he wanted to.

He came back because survival doesn’t care about pride.

The house loomed ahead, the lights on inside like nothing had changed, like everything was still perfect. He pushed the door open, careful not to make too much noise.

Mrs. Verlice was in the kitchen, humming softly as she chopped vegetables. Her smile when she saw him was kind—too kind. Like she didn’t want him to feel like he was a problem, even though he felt like one. He could already hear the faintest traces of worry in her tone as she asked, “Are you okay, Terrence?”

Okay?

He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he muttered a quiet, “Yeah.”

Augustin was sitting at the table, flipping through a book. His eyes flicked up when he noticed Terrence standing there, and for the briefest second, their gazes met. There was something about that look—something warm but not overly pushy. A quiet understanding, maybe. It made Terrence feel like an idiot for bolting off in the first place.

But no. Screw it. He wasn’t going to feel bad about needing space. About wanting to feel like himself for five minutes instead of playing pretend for everyone else.

Mrs. Verlice sighed. “Come on. You must be starving. Dinner’s ready in a few.”

Terrence nodded. “I’m not hungry.”

That was a lie, of course. But hunger didn’t matter when he was drowning in the weight of everything else. The fake smiles, the politeness, the constant undercurrent of "fitting in" that everyone seemed to expect. The problem wasn’t the food. It wasn’t even their politeness or kindness. It was the fact that none of it felt real. None of it felt like home.

It felt like a very expensive, very lonely version of survival.

"I can heat up something for you later, if you want," Mrs. Verlice offered, voice gentle, but it didn’t land.

"Thanks," Terrence muttered, before disappearing up the stairs and retreating to his room. He shut the door behind him, a small act of rebellion that still felt pathetic. He didn’t even want to change out of his dirty clothes. It felt like a waste. Like nothing mattered anymore.

Lying on the bed, he let the quiet of the room swallow him whole. He didn’t even bother pulling the blanket over himself.

It wasn’t home.

But it was the closest thing he had.

It had been a few days, and Terrence was starting to feel the weight of it all. Fitting in wasn’t just hard—it felt impossible. Every group at school had already carved out their spaces, polished and impenetrable. There was no room for someone like him. No space he could slip into without feeling like an intruder.

And the constant surveillance—teachers watching, students whispering, rules clinging to him like a second skin—it was too much. Like every breath had to be measured, every glance accounted for. It had started as irritation. Now it was something heavier. A dull, dragging ache that settled behind his ribs and wouldn’t leave.

He showed up late to dinner again. Shoes muddy. Knee torn where he’d tripped on some stupid sidewalk crack that came out of nowhere.

“Shit,” he muttered, brushing at the dried dirt on his hoodie like it was the real problem.

He stood in the doorway, waiting. The silence hit first—sharp, clean, full of things left unsaid. Mrs. Verlice looked at his pants but didn’t comment. No sigh. No tight-lipped lecture. Just a simple, calm: “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The tone said enough. That disappointed calm was worse than being yelled at. It made him feel smaller, like he was already a lost cause and they were just waiting for him to figure it out.

No one looked up. No one asked where he’d been.

He didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t make a show of being angry.

He just turned and walked away, steps heavy up the stairs. When he reached his room, he didn’t bother to change or take off his shoes. He collapsed face-first into the mattress, the springs creaking beneath him, his breath catching against the pillow.

He lay there, motionless.

No music. No phone. No board. No noise to drown it out.

Just the quiet. The kind that echoed.

And yeah—he was crashing. Not the loud, dramatic kind. Not the throw-things-at-the-wall kind. This was the slow kind. The numb kind. The kind where the loneliness wrapped around him like a blanket and whispered, “Told you so.”

Maybe he deserved this.

Maybe he’d never really belonged anywhere to begin with.

The old him would laugh if they ever found out about these kinds of thoughts.
Me? Brooding? Depressed? Please.

He’d always been the loud one. The joker. The one who brushed things off, who cracked a joke even when the walls were caving in. He’d never let anyone see the cracks. Not at home. Not at school. Not even in the mirror.

But here, in this too-quiet house with its spotless floors and spotless expectations, all the noise had been stripped away. There was nothing left to hide behind. No crowd. No chaos.

Just him.

And for once, that didn’t feel like enough.

2:08 a.m.

The knock was soft. Too soft to be Carter.

Terrence didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling, limbs heavy, mind too tired to pretend he didn’t hear it.

The door creaked open anyway.

Genevieve stepped in, arms full—a folded towel, a clean shirt, and a small tub of something balanced on top. She paused just inside the room, giving him that familiar look—somewhere between judgment and obligation.

“Your skin looks like it’s planning a rebellion,” she said, matter-of-fact, not cruel, but not kind either.

He didn’t even lift his head. “You handing out dermatology degrees now?”

She walked forward, setting everything down at the foot of his bed. “No. But if I'm going to be seen next to you, I’d prefer you look less... post-apocalyptic. You’ve got decent bone structure under all that grime. Might as well use it.”

Terrence dragged the blanket higher over his face. “Thanks. That really warms the heart.”

Genevieve shrugged like she didn’t hear him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Just figured I’d help before people start mistaking you for a health hazard.”

He didn't answer, and she didn’t wait for one. She was already at the door when she added, with far too much cheer, “You're not hopeless. Just statistically unfortunate.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled back in.

He stared at the ceiling, unsure if she meant to insult him or help him or maybe both. But it didn’t matter. Not really.

If she knew how heavy it all felt—if she knew how many days he’d spent teetering between numb and nothing—maybe she wouldn’t have said a thing. Maybe she’d have walked in with less commentary, and more... understanding. But no one knew, because he never told anyone. And this place wasn’t built for honesty, just polished surfaces and polite expectations.

He sat up slowly, his gaze catching the towel. Lavender-scented. Soft. Intentional.

That ache in his chest returned—quiet but persistent.

He walked to the window and leaned in, forehead nearly touching the cold glass.

His reflection stared back at him, washed in moonlight. Hair tangled and unwashed. Skin dull, patchy, irritated. Eyes tired. Hollow. Not broken, but definitely worn thin.

Is that all they saw?

He’d heard it so many times—"unfortunate," "rough around the edges," "not what this school expects." Like he was a project to fix, not a person trying.

He touched the glass, palm flat.

Back home, no one cared how he looked. His friends laughed too loud to notice his face. The city didn’t judge. He had his board, his music, the night.

Here? Here, he had lavender soap and curated silence.

He let his hand fall. Then, wordlessly, picked up the towel and the shirt. Not because he cared about fitting in.

Because maybe tonight, he just wanted to feel clean.