She tossed and turned on the old bed, eyes wide open against the ceiling. Outside, the wind slipped through the cracks, carrying with it the rustle of leaves. Sleep refused to come. Instead, memories she thought long buried came flooding back, vivid and unstoppable.
Back then, she was just another ordinary student—so ordinary she almost blended into the walls of her classroom. A plain face, average grades, only a handful of friends. Nothing remarkable. But that day, everything inside her boiled over. Family troubles had gnawed at her until she couldn't bear it anymore.
In the middle of class, she suddenly stood up. Heart pounding, she wandered down the long, silent hallway, until her steps halted before an abandoned classroom.
The door creaked open. A faint scent of old wood and dust greeted her. The room was quiet, almost sacred. Sunlight filtered through the open window, falling across drifting specks of dust. Outside, the leaves swayed gently, casting dancing shadows on the worn-out floorboards. The place felt… unreal. Like stepping into a dream.
She dragged out a rickety chair and collapsed into it. And then, the dam broke. Words poured out—resentment, sorrow, anger she had bottled up too long. She talked, and she cried, until her voice shook and her face was a mess of tears and snot.
"Too noisy. If you want to cry, go do it somewhere else."
A voice cut through the silence, sharp and irritated. She froze, whipping her head around. Her eyes darted across the room, searching. In the far corner, behind a stack of old desks piled high, someone moved.
A boy stood up. His expression was impatient at first, but when he saw her—eyes red, face streaked with tears—he broke into laughter. The sound echoed strangely in the dusty room.
Humiliation burned hot in her chest. Her sobs grew louder, heavier, as though defying his laughter. The boy stopped, startled by her reaction. Awkwardness flickered across his face as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief.
"Here… wipe your face. Stop crying."
The cloth was warm, almost like his hand itself. She clutched it, burying her face in it, still sniffling. Yet slowly, her cries softened.
When she finally looked down, the handkerchief was soaked through, stained with the mess of her tears. Embarrassment crashed over her. Her cheeks flamed red, like a tomato ready to burst. She scrambled to her feet, stammering:
"I—I'll wash it and give it back to you!"
And with that, she bolted, vanishing through the doorway, leaving the boy behind in the dusty sunlight, still half-smiling, half-confused.
From that one reckless escape, she had stumbled into the person who would end up changing everything.
The following afternoon, after classes ended, she found herself wandering back to that abandoned classroom. She didn't know why—perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps something else—but a small part of her hoped she might see him again.
When she pushed the door open, the room was empty. A faint wave of disappointment washed over her chest. She sighed. Not wanting to go home too soon, not ready to hear the sound of her parents fighting once more, she decided to stay. Slowly, she began tidying up the space—dusting the desks, sweeping the floor, brushing away the cobwebs that clung to the corners.
She was just crouching near the stack of desks where he had appeared yesterday when—BANG!
The door was kicked open, the sound shattering the silence like a thunderclap. She spun around in fright. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she froze, then warmth bloomed in her chest. It was him.
He too seemed momentarily stunned, as though he hadn't expected to find her there. But her relief quickly shifted into alarm when she noticed the state of his face. One eye was swollen, dark bruises painted across his skin, and blood still dripped from his nose. He looked battered, pitiful even.
Without thinking, she rushed over, her hand half-raised to touch the wound. He startled, flinching back, and the rejection made her realize how bold—how improper—she must have seemed. Flustered, she fumbled in her bag, pulled out the freshly washed handkerchief she had promised to return, and thrust it into his hands.
"Here… use this," she mumbled, cheeks hot, before bolting out of the room.
Her heart raced as she ran down the hallway. But she couldn't stop thinking of his face, the quiet pain behind his startled eyes. She turned right back, clutching a small bottle of antiseptic and some bandages she had begged off the school nurse. Every step back to that classroom thudded with anxious hope: Please, let him still be there.
When she arrived, breathless, relief nearly buckled her knees. He was still there. Waiting.
She cleared her throat softly. "Um… here. For your injuries."
His brows lifted in surprise as she held out the bandages. Slowly, almost shyly, he took them. But instead of using them properly, he grabbed the cotton soaked with alcohol and scrubbed at his wound with a wince-inducing force. His face twisted, and a muffled groan slipped from his lips.
"Stop—let me do it." Her voice was firmer than she expected. She reached out, gently taking the cotton from his hand. He didn't resist.
Carefully, she dabbed at the blood, her touch delicate, steady. She taped the bandage over the swelling, her fingers brushing his skin. The silence between them grew heavy, not uncomfortable but strangely fragile, like glass.
When she finished, she quickly stepped back, hiding her own pounding heartbeat. "All done. Take care of yourself," she said hastily, before excusing herself and hurrying out the door.
Yet as she walked away, something inside her shifted. That boy was no longer just a stranger who had mocked her tears. He was… something else. A fragile figure she now considered, deep down, as the first real friend she'd made in a long time. And she found herself hoping—perhaps more than she should—that she would see him again