The sun had already begun its gentle ascent into the morning sky, casting warm golden hues over the rooftops and treetops. A faint chill still lingered in the air, but the bustle of a new day had already taken hold of the city.

Cars hummed steadily down the roads, their engines mixing into a background symphony of horns, tires, and chatter. People rushed about—some sipping coffee, others tapping away at phones—as they made their way to offices, stores, and schools.

Shutters rolled up one by one as shops opened for the day, their owners sweeping the front steps or arranging fresh produce, baked goods, or shiny merchandise for display. Meanwhile, a boy on a bicycle weaved through the estate’s winding paths, flinging rolled-up newspapers with surprising accuracy onto doorsteps.

It was another busy Tuesday.

John observed all of it as he walked down the cracked sidewalk toward school, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets and music playing through his earphones. Despite already being late—again—he didn’t run. He didn’t even pick up the pace.

There was no need—his school was only a kilometer away. He knew the route like the back of his hand. The walk had become routine. Automatic. Predictable.

He could invite his friends over after school. It wasn’t like anyone had other plans.

But there was no way in hell he was going to do that.

NO WAY.

John: I definitely don't want anyone to find out about my mom.

His jaw tightened at the thought. Just for a moment, his normally indifferent expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of something colder—irritation. Maybe even shame. He hated how hard he worked to keep his school life and home life as far apart as possible. Hated how much effort it took to hide the truth.

It wasn’t just privacy. It was survival. His image, his peace of mind—everything depended on keeping that part of his life in the dark.

As John approached the school gates, the building loomed into view—gray, dull, and already buzzing with students. Just past the front gate, like clockwork, stood the ever-watchful Mr. Everworth.

Tall, stiff, and perpetually scowling, the teacher looked like someone who had never enjoyed a single joke in his entire life. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, and from the look in his narrowed eyes, it was clear he had been waiting.

Waiting for John.

Again.

A thick vein pulsed visibly on Mr. Everworth’s forehead as his gaze locked onto John, radiating a mix of exasperation and triumph—as if catching John late was some personal victory.

John let out a long, tired sigh. Without a word, he pulled out his earphones and stuffed them, along with his phone, into his pocket.

John: Here we go again…

****

Mr. Everworth: Every single day! It’s always something with you! Why do you keep arriving late to school, John? Can you explain that?

John: (sighs, voice low) I'm sorry, Mr. Everworth. I’ll try harder to make it on time.

Mr. Everworth: (infuriated, voice rising) That’s what you said yesterday! And last week! And the week before that! How can you keep repeating those same empty words and never follow through? Do you think this is some kind of joke?

John: (to himself, quietly) Chill out, dude. I came to school late, not murdered the president…

Mr. Everworth: (clearly hearing the mutter) And there it is—that nonchalant attitude of yours! This is exactly the problem. You act like none of this matters. But it does! If you keep this up, I’ll have no choice but to call your mother and have a very serious discussion about your unacceptable behavior.

John stiffened instantly.

His breath caught in his throat. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

That was the one thing he couldn’t allow to happen. Not now. Not ever.

His mother showing up at school would destroy everything.

All the walls he had carefully built between his two worlds—school and home—would come crashing down.

That was something that John DID NOT want to happen under any circumstances. His mother stepping foot into his school would shatter the carefully curated version of himself he presented to everyone else. The teasing. The questions. The assumptions. He couldn’t bear it.

The truth was, John didn’t sleep much at night. Not because he didn’t want to.

But because of the “visitors” his mother brought home.

Men who came and went like shadows.

Their loud voices echoing down the halls. The drunken laughs. The arguments. The sounds from her bedroom—noises John had tried to shut out for years. Groans. Moans. Thumping against walls. The kind of noise that made you want to rip your ears off.

It was exhausting.

And it made sleep nearly impossible. He often stayed up until 3 or 4 a.m., eyes bloodshot and mind restless, dreading when the morning would finally come.

But how could he tell Mr. Everworth that?

How could he tell anyone?

No—he had to find a way out of this.

John: (forcing a nervous smile) Sir, that won’t be necessary, right? I mean… you don’t have to call her.

Mr. Everworth: (narrowing his eyes) Not if you fix this habit. That’s the only reason I’m giving you one more chance. But this is it, John. Understand?

John hesitated. The idea of his classmates meeting his mother sent a wave of dread rolling through his chest. He had to keep the worlds apart—school and home. If they ever collided…

John: (firmly) I understand. I promise I’ll do better, sir. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be punctual. No excuses.

Mr. Everworth stared at him, eyes studying every twitch on John’s face, searching for signs of dishonesty. But what he saw instead was fear—real, vulnerable fear.

Something softened in the teacher’s face.

Mr. Everworth: (after a beat) Then you can leave my office. (gestures toward the door) Go on. Get to class.

John didn’t need to be told twice. He quickly grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and slipped out of the room.

The hallway outside was eerily quiet, empty except for the hum of distant classroom chatter. His footsteps echoed slightly as he walked, alone.

His eyes flicked to the wall clock above the lockers.

9:15 AM.

The first class had started fifteen minutes ago.

He sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face.

John: (to himself) Let’s just get through today…

With a quiet resolve, he began the walk toward his classroom, thoughts already drifting ahead to how he could make sure tomorrow would be different—if that was even possible.

***

My name is Johnathan Wellman, but everyone just calls me John.

And right now, I’m living the shittiest life imaginable.

You don’t believe me? Fine. Let me walk you through a few things.

From what you saw earlier, you’ve probably already guessed what my mom does for a living. And if you didn’t—well, that’s on you. I’m not gonna spell it out.

It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. Almost every single night, she brings home a different man, and they do… whatever they do in the bedroom. Loudly. Without a care in the world. I don’t even need to be in the hallway to hear it.

It messes up everything—my studying, my sanity, and worst of all, my sleep.

Pretty sure that’s how I was born too. Some late-night fling that turned into a lifetime sentence.

I never met my dad. Never even saw a photo. My mom’s been doing this for as long as I’ve been alive, and I’ve stopped bothering to ask questions.

And yeah, the money she makes keeps the lights on. Keeps food on the table. Keeps us from being homeless.

But that doesn’t make it right.

Selling yourself short for some crumpled cash and calling it “providing for your child”? That’s not noble. That’s an excuse. A pathetic one.

And honestly?

I hate every second of it.

Most kids grow up feeling safe around their moms. They go to them for advice. They sit in the kitchen and talk about life. They laugh, they bond, they share moments.

I’ve never had that.

Never had those late-night heart-to-hearts. Never had bedtime stories or morning hugs.

Just the sound of another guy slamming the front door behind him and my mom acting like everything’s fine the next day.

I used to cry about it. Now? I just feel numb.

And the more I had to hide her from my school life—the more I had to pretend everything was normal—the more I hated being around her.

Oh, speaking of school... I guess I should introduce you to my friends.

********

John slipped into the classroom through the back door, moving like a shadow—quiet, deliberate, and unnoticed. His eyes immediately darted to the front of the room, scanning the area where the teacher’s desk stood.

Empty.

Relief washed over him.

John: (smirks) Must be my lucky day.

The classroom buzzed with life. Laughter echoed from every corner, desks were clustered together, and students were engaged in animated conversations. It was a typical morning in Room 2-B—noisy, messy, and filled with the chaos only teenagers could create.

No one noticed he had arrived late.

Not that they ever really did.

Toward the back of the room, near the wide windows that overlooked the school courtyard, sat two familiar figures—his best friends, Ivan and Joseph.

Ivan, a tall, laid-back blonde with an ever-present grin, was already waving him over.

Joseph, shorter and far more sarcastic, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed and shook his head in mock disapproval.

Ivan: Late again, dude.

Joseph: Yeah, what gives? I even called you last night so we could squad up on Warfare. You didn’t answer. I sat there staring at my screen like a loser.

John: (nervously) Sorry, guys. My after-school job drained me. I didn’t even get a chance to check my messages.

Joseph: (sighs) That’s like the third time this week, man.

Ivan: (shrugs) If you say so. But seriously, why do you even have an after-school job? We’re in high school, not paying rent.

John: I just want my own money. Simple as that.

Ivan: (tilting his head) Yeah, but don’t your parents give you an allowance or something?

John: (blinks) An allowance?

Joseph: (incredulous) Yeah, like money your parents give you for existing? You seriously don’t know what that is?

John didn’t respond immediately.

Both Ivan and Joseph stared at him, their expressions exaggerated like something out of a cartoon—eyes wide, mouths agape in mock horror.

Of course, John knew what an allowance was.

He just never got one.

Not with the kind of mother he had.

There were no weekly payouts or neatly folded bills slipped into his hand “just because.” If he wanted money, he had to earn it. Every cent.

John: (defensive) Of course I know what an allowance is!

Joseph: Oh yeah? Define it then.

Ivan: Yeah, let's hear it, genius.

John: What? Are you guys serious? Why do I have to prove to you that I know what an allowance is?

Their skeptical glares only deepened.

Ivan: (whispers to Joseph) He’s totally dodging the question.

Joseph: (whispers back) Quite the convenient thing to do, right?

Ivan: Yep. Pretty sus behavior if you ask me.

Joseph: (glances sideways at John) Maybe…he really is a dumbass after all.

Ivan: (nods solemnly) I agree.

John: Hey— I’M RIGHT HERE, YOU KNOW!

John threw his arms up in frustration, his voice just loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby classmates. Rolling his eyes, he turned toward the window to avoid their smirks and jokes.

Outside, the school grounds were bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Elegant stone walkways crisscrossed the campus, framed by flower beds bursting with color. It was the kind of scenery people took for granted—the kind of beauty that demanded nothing but offered peace.

Just beyond the glass, nestled in the heart of the courtyard, stood a massive tree, its branches sprawling like arms that reached for the sky. Its leaves shimmered in the sunlight, casting dappled shadows on the students who lounged beneath it.

Some read novels with headphones in their ears.

Others laughed over shared snacks.

Near the base of the tree, a staff member gently watered the flowers that encircled it. The petals, vibrant in color, seemed to shimmer in the light, like something out of a dream.

John: (softly) Maybe I’ll eat lunch there today.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it—peace, quiet, no sarcastic remarks, no hidden truths.

Just him, a bento box, and some fresh air.

He blinked.

Then—

A pair of soft, delicate hands suddenly covered his eyes from behind.

John froze.

His body stiffened instinctively, and his breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t need to guess who it was.

The scent of her perfume—floral, subtle, and unforgettable—drifted into his senses.

John: (tense) Crap… it’s her.