I should've stayed in the room.
I knew I should've.
But Luca said, "You gotta eat something," and smiled like he was trying to carry the morning in his hands.
So I came.
Sat with his hoodie on, sketchbook out, face blank.
Just like I've practiced.
And when he got up to get my tea, I told myself, three minutes. You can survive anything for three minutes.
I was wrong.
---
Hannah comes first.
Ava follows.
And two boys I don't know the names of — but I know their laughter. I've heard it in locker rooms. In hallways. Behind my back.
Always behind.
They carry the pink box like it's a birthday present.
My birthday was last week.
And no one came.
Except Luca.
---
"Hey stair girl," Hannah says. "Thought you deserved a late gift."
I don't move.
I keep my pencil pressed to the paper like I'm sketching, but the lines are shaking. My knuckles white.
Ava sets the box down in front of me.
I don't open it.
So they do.
Rotten mangoes.
Overripe. Black. Mushy.
Fruit juice pooled at the bottom like bile.
There's more: a banana peel. A used pad. Dirty socks. A dead bird wing — oh God — a literal bird wing.
Taped inside the box:
Sweet fruit for your dirty mouth 💋
I want to scream.
I want to disappear.
But I freeze.
Like I always do.
Like I did.
---
Someone laughs.
Another girl giggles and pulls out her phone.
I stand.
But I'm too slow.
A boy — tall, smirking — says, "Oops!" and dumps the whole box over me.
The weight of it hits my shoulders.
Cold fruit slides down my back. Mango pulp smears across my neck. Something rancid drips into my bra. The dead wing brushes my cheek.
And the entire room erupts in laughter.
Phones flash.
Chairs scrape.
Someone says, "Guess she got what she likes, huh?"
Another voice — sharper: "Smile for the camera, stair whore."
---
And that's when it breaks.
Not the fruit.
Me.
---
Because suddenly I'm not in the dining hall.
I'm eleven again.
On a mattress. In a basement.
With a boy who said, "It's just pretend. Don't tell."
And I couldn't scream then either.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Just like now.
---
I hear someone say, "Where's her savior? Oh, right—probably watching from the rich table."
And I flinch.
Because for a second — just a second — I wonder…
Was Luca watching?
Did he know?
Is this a joke they all planned?
I bolt.
---
My sketchbook falls.
Someone kicks it.
Laughter follows me down the hallway.
My hoodie sticks to my skin — soaked in juice, in shame, in silence.
I find the stairwell.
I fall against the wall.
I throw up.