The hallway swallows me whole.
Shoes slapping tile. Hoodie sticking to my back. The world swimming sideways through the blur in my eyes. I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. I just need walls. Corners. Somewhere without mouths.
My feet find the stairwell.
Always the stairwell.
I sink into the shadows behind the vending machine and curl my knees to my chest. The mango pulp is still on my skin. Sticky. Sweet. Rotten. I smell like a joke. Like a warning.
I want to peel myself out of my body.
Scrape off everything they touched.
Everything they laughed at.
Everything they made mine again — my fault, my skin, my shame.
I gag.
Nothing comes up.
I already emptied myself once.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I press them flat to the ground. Count tiles. Four forward. Two to the right. My route. My ritual. The only part of the day that ever felt safe. I want it to mean something again.
But safety is a myth people give you when they don't know what else to say.
They said worse things in whispers.
Before the fruit.
Before the cameras.
Before the wing.
They've always hated me. I just thought I could outgrow their attention.
Draw my wings big enough to lift off.
I was wrong.
The wing.
There was a wing in the box.
A real one.
Dead. Feathered. Bent.
I don't know why that part breaks me the most. Maybe because it's mine. Because they gave me back something I never let them see and told me: this is what we think of you.
Maybe because they knew.
I pick mango from the ends of my curls with trembling fingers.
The sugar clings. The juice stains.
I want to scream but my mouth is a locked drawer with no key.
So I sit.
And shake.
And count.
And breathe.
Until the door opens.
I don't look up.
I already know who it is.
His footsteps are too soft. His presence too loud. It's always him.
Luca.
Too late.
He says my name.
I flinch.
He reaches for me.
I fold in tighter.
Because my body can't tell the difference between safe and sorry.
Not anymore.
He whispers something. An apology. A thousand things I can't hear.
But I know the shape of his silence when he realizes I'm not reachable.
And I hate that I still want to be.
So I say it.
Soft. Raw. Not even at him — just at the air.
"You left."