(Where Kade discovers that message, and it stirs things inside him he hasn't let himself feel in years.)
"Some things don't echo when they fall. They land in you like teeth."
Before
Kade hadn't meant to stay late at school.
He hated staying late.
The building felt different when the hallways emptied. The hum of the lights grew louder. The shadows stretched too far. Everything echoed. Even his footsteps felt like they didn't belong.
He was only here because of a stupid math retake.
He'd bombed the first one. Mind foggy. Hands cold. He didn't tell Viera about it—he didn't want her to worry. She'd been so soft with him lately. Tucking her hand under his hoodie. Sitting on his lap like she belonged there. Tickling him every time he said something self-deprecating.
He didn't want to ruin that.
So he studied. He took the retake. He finished it.
And now the school was closing down.
The janitor gave him a nod as he passed. The lights flicked off behind him.
Kade turned the corner, trying to find the right stairwell to exit. His steps slowed when he passed the art room.
It was open.
The teacher must've forgotten to lock it.
The Chalkboard
He didn't mean to look.
He really didn't.
But something about the way the room was lit—just barely, like it was holding its breath—drew him in. The chalkboard was half-cleaned, smudged and dusty.
Except for one message.
White letters.
Slight tilt to the handwriting. Aggressive. Careless.
KADE
People like you don't belong in her world.
For a second, Kade didn't move.
His eyes just stayed on it.
It didn't even sting at first. Not like a slap. Not like a punch.
No, this was something different. Older.
It was like gravity shifted, and suddenly he could feel his own skin again—how it didn't quite fit. The weight of it. The awkward, invisible heat of being a boy who had always made himself smaller to survive.
His breath left slowly.
Not fast.
Just… quietly.
Like the air had realized it didn't belong in his lungs anymore.
Flashback (Fragment)
"You'll never be good enough, Kade."
"You're a mistake. You know that, right?"
The belt. The closed door. The way he learned not to cry, because crying made it worse.
He looked away from the board.
But it was still there.
In him.
KADE.
People like you don't belong.
His name had always been safe with her. When she said it, it was music. A private key. Now it felt like a wound.
He stepped back.
Then farther.
He left the room without erasing it.
After
He didn't text Viera.
He didn't want her to know.
He just went home, hoodie pulled up, walked the whole way in silence. Didn't take the bus. Didn't wave at the lady with the garden who always smiled.
By the time he got to his room, the air felt too thick to breathe.
He didn't cry.
He never cried.
But he sat on the edge of his bed, eyes unfocused, hands tight in his lap. The message looped again.
People like you don't belong.
He didn't realize he'd been gripping his leg until his nails left half-moon marks in his jeans.
He stood up. Paced. Sat down. Stood again.
Then stared at his reflection in the mirror.
The same too-big eyes.
The same softness he hated.
The same boy Viera had said was strong—but who couldn't even look at himself without remembering how it felt to be nothing.
The Next Day
Viera noticed it before he even opened his mouth.
"You're quiet."
He shrugged.
"You didn't answer my texts last night."
"Sorry. I fell asleep."
She didn't push. Not at first.
But as they walked the halls together, she felt the gap—not physical, but emotional. Like his body was here, but his thoughts were curled up under some desk somewhere, bruised and curled inward.
She linked their fingers anyway.
He didn't pull away.
But he didn't squeeze back either.
Later, after school, they sat at their spot near the stairwell.
Viera was sketching a doodle of a frog wearing glasses in the corner of her notebook.
Kade was staring out the window.
Then quietly: "Do you think I'm wrong for you?"
Her pencil stopped.
"What?"
He didn't look at her.
"I mean… we're different. You're this—this beautiful, powerful, bright thing. And I'm… not."
Viera turned.
Set her notebook down.
"Kade."
Still he didn't look.
She reached up, touched his jaw gently, and turned his face to hers.
"You are not wrong. You're not too soft. Or too quiet. Or too anything."
"But someone wrote it," he whispered.
Her face froze. "Wrote what?"
He told her.
He didn't want to.
But he did.
Every word like gravel.
And she sat through it—eyes steady, heart breaking.
And when he was done, she didn't rage. Didn't scream.
She just said:
"I'm not letting you believe that."
And then, softly: "Not ever."
That night, she held him in her bed again. Tickled him until he smiled. Teased him until he groaned. She didn't ask for him to talk. She just laid her head on his chest and whispered:
"Whoever wrote that doesn't know you. I do."
His hand found her waist.
And he whispered, "Thank you."