Note: Trigger Warning
I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them, resting my chin on top. The field stretched out in front of me, warm and quiet, dotted with a few stray students. Some were jogging, some sitting in circles under trees, laughing. Living.
I wasn't sure what I was doing. All I knew was that Kevin's presence used to make me feel seen. Now it just made me feel tired.
And Syron—God, Syron—he didn't try to make me feel anything. He just... showed up. Said what he needed to say. Stayed when it was quiet. Left without asking for anything in return. And somehow, that made all the difference.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded note he'd handed me. I still hadn't read it. I stared at it now, unsure why my heart suddenly picked up speed.
Maybe it was nothing—just a flyer or a reminder someone had stuck to my door. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
I didn't open it. Not yet.
I slipped it back into my pocket and leaned my head back, letting the last bit of sunlight touch my face.
I don't know how long I sat there. The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field. The breeze had picked up too—just enough to rustle the trees and tug lightly at my hair.
Still, I didn't move. I kept thinking about that folded piece of paper in my pocket.
It felt heavier now, like it had been gaining weight all day. Like something was waiting inside it—something I didn't know I was bracing for.
Finally, I reached for it. Unfolded the soft corners. Smoothed it flat. The handwriting was neat. Slanted. Simple.
You don't have to talk.
You don't even have to explain.
But if the noise in your head ever gets too loud—
you can knock.
—S.
That was it.
No overthinking. No dramatics. Just that.
I stared at the words, rereading them slowly. Again and again. My throat tightened—not because I wanted to cry, but because it had been so long since someone understood me without needing a backstory.
He hadn't asked for context. He hadn't even waited for a reply. He just left the words there like an open door.
A quiet offering.
I folded the note back up, careful this time. Like it was something fragile. Precious. Because it was.
In a world full of noise, someone had finally said the one thing I didn't know I needed to hear:
That I didn't have to pretend. That I didn't have to perform my healing. That I could just exist—as I was.
I slipped the note into the back pocket of my notebook, where I knew it would stay safe.
Then I stood up. My legs ached from sitting too long, but I didn't mind. I started walking slowly, the sky above me bleeding into pinks and oranges. I still didn't know what I was doing.
It was past six when our professor finally dismissed us. I stretched in my seat, back aching, and began packing my things.
Jersey waved as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
"I'm heading out. We have a meeting at the sports office."
I nodded. "Take care."
"We've got one too," Susmita added, zipping her pouch closed. "Get home safe, guys."
"Thanks," I murmured, watching her and Yashina exit the room.
Once the door shut behind them, the silence felt oddly loud. I finished packing slowly.
By the time I made it to the comfort room, Mia and Jhay had already stepped out to buy water from the cafeteria. Practice was about to start, and once it did, there'd be no breaks—not even for the bathroom.
I peeled off my uniform and changed into a loose shirt and short shorts—something easy to move in. I tied my hair back, tight and high.
I was rounding the hallway corner, still adjusting my ponytail, when it happened.
Someone grabbed me.
Hard.
I barely had time to react. My back slammed into the wall, and my elbow hit the corner edge. Pain shot up my arm.
"Shit!" I gasped, instinctively pushing back—but the grip was too tight.
He pinned me, one arm on each side, trapping me between the wall and his body.
"What the hell, Kevin?!" I snapped.
He didn't answer right away. His face was too close. Too calm. His eyes half-lidded, like this was some kind of game.
I turned my head away instantly. The sharp smell of alcohol on his breath made my stomach twist.
"Are you drunk?" I demanded.
He didn't deny it. Instead, he let out a breathy laugh—then grabbed my jaw and forced my face toward him.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I shouted, struggling to pull away. "You're hurting me! Let go!"
He didn't. His hand gripped harder, fingers pressing into my skin. When he leaned in, I jerked to the side, narrowly avoiding his mouth.
"Stop it!" I choked out, voice cracking. My chest heaved as panic surged. "Kevin, stop!"
"Fuck, Cyrene!" he growled, like I was the one doing something wrong.
He tried again, moving in fast. I twisted the other way. My head hit the wall in the process. Tears welled in my eyes—not from fear alone, but from sheer disbelief.
He had never—never—done anything like this before.
"Just one, Mace! One kiss!" His voice cracked with desperation, but there was venom in it too. "Can't you even give me that?! How useless can you be?!"
And then—he grabbed both my shoulders and forced himself in. I froze as his lips pressed against the side of my neck.
My entire body went cold.
My brain froze.
The only thing I could manage—barely—was his name.
"K-Kevin..."
Tears streamed down my face as he kissed me there—his mouth warm and unwanted, his tongue tracing my skin. I shuddered.
Then his hand slid downward until it was on my butt. I trembled uncontrollably. My body rejected every touch, but it was like I wasn't even there.
"P-Please..." I whispered, finally finding my voice. But he didn't hear me. Or worse—he chose not to.
I pushed at his chest with all the strength I could gather, but he only gripped me harder. My sobs came freely now, panicked and ragged.
There was something terrifying in the desperation of his kisses—something unhinged. I could barely breathe.
His hand moved again, this time trailing upward. I squeezed my eyes shut. Then—
A loud thud. I gasped and opened my eyes.
Kevin was on the floor, breathing hard, groaning. One arm cradled his ribs. I turned—and saw him.
Syron.
Standing over him. Eyes dark and locked on Kevin like he could end him right there. His chest rose and fell with slow, seething restraint. Then he looked at me. And his entire face changed.
The fury melted. What replaced it wasn't pity—just concern. Clear. Real.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, stepping closer.
I shook my head, lips trembling. I wanted to speak, but my throat felt blocked—like my voice had gotten lost somewhere inside me.
I had never been kissed like that. Not like that.
I reached for Syron's hand—anything to ground me. Anything to hold on to, because my knees were giving out. He caught me without hesitation.
Then, quietly, without a word, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around my waist. I felt his fingers tug the hem of my shirt down gently, respectfully, as if to shield me from the rest of the world.
He lifted me up like I weighed nothing. I didn't protest. My arms found their way around his neck—not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I couldn't stay upright on my own anymore.
The hallway felt hollow. My friends weren't back yet—thank God. I thought everyone had gone home, but the moment we stepped into the open, I heard murmurs.
A few students still lingered near the corners of the building. Their eyes followed us. Heat flushed my face. I shut my eyes tight and buried my face in Syron's chest.
This is so damn embarrassing. Oh my God. Oh my God.
But even with all the shame crashing over me, I became acutely aware of his scent—his cologne. Clean. Subtle. Familiar. I couldn't think straight.
Then a door creaked open ahead. The school nurse rushed toward us, face twisting with concern.
"What happened?"
"She needs help," Syron said plainly, calmly, but his jaw was still tight.
He carried me straight to the infirmary bed and helped me sit down—careful, like I was made of glass.
I couldn't meet his eyes. I turned away instead, staring blankly at the tiled floor. Because I wasn't ready to speak.
The room was still. The nurse bustled quietly in the background, gathering supplies, but her movements felt distant—muted—like I was underwater. My hands rested on my lap, fingers twitching slightly, unsure of what to do. I hadn't said a word. And Syron hadn't left.
He stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed lightly, like he wasn't sure whether to sit or give me space. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes never left me.
I hated that I felt exposed. That I was wearing his jacket. That I needed it. But I didn't move.
The nurse came over, crouching beside the bed to check for bruises. Her voice was soft and careful.
"Do you feel pain anywhere aside from your elbow?"
I shook my head.
"No dizziness? Nausea?"
Another shake.
"You're sure?"
I nodded this time.
She gave a gentle smile and said, "I'll be in the other room. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" Then she glanced at Syron. "You can stay. But keep it quiet." He nodded once.
She stepped out. The door clicked shut behind her. Silence fell again. I didn't know how to fill it—and honestly, I didn't want to.
I leaned my head back against the wall behind the bed, still staring at my hands. Still trying to steady my breathing. Still pretending I was fine.
"I should've shown up earlier," Syron said suddenly.
His voice was low. Careful. I looked at him. His jaw clenched once, then released.
"I went to find you after I saw Kevin hanging around again. Something felt off." I swallowed, my throat dry.
"You didn't... have to."
"I know."
He finally moved—slowly, cautiously—taking the chair beside the bed. Not too close. Just close enough.
"But I wanted to."
His words sank into the air between us. I didn't know what to say. So I just let them hang there.
For a few seconds, we sat in silence—the kind that didn't feel heavy this time, just still.
Then I whispered, "He's never done that before."
Syron looked at me, expression steady. He didn't say I'm sorry—which, strangely, made it easier to breathe. Because right now, I didn't want apologies. I wanted to not feel crazy for being scared.
"I thought he was just drunk," I added, voice barely audible. "I didn't think he'd—" I stopped. My throat burned again. "I didn't think," I whispered.
Syron didn't move closer, didn't try to touch me. But I felt his presence—solid beside me. Like an anchor.
"Whatever you're feeling," he said, voice steady, "you're allowed to feel it."