The school smelled like rain and cheap perfume. Mornings after a storm always did — the outdoors leaking into the hallways, damp shoes and louder whispers. It set the perfect scene for a hunt.
Word spread fast. I didn't even have to say anything. A look from me was enough; heads bent, whispers sharpened into knives. I walked the corridor like it was my stage. Everyone watched, waiting for the next cue.
Ethan sat on the third stair, back against the cold brick, headphones gone and hands folded over a small sketchbook like it was the only warm thing he owned. He looked smaller than usual, shoulders rounded in on themselves. Maybe the silence was finally getting to him.
"Watch this," I told Maya with a smile that tasted like iron. She grinned and reached into her bag.
We started with the usual — the shove, the laugh. I bumped his knee with my shoulder as I passed, just enough to make the sketchbook slip. Papers poured out like leaves. A few kids moved to watch, faces bright with the cruel pleasure of a crowd.
He bent like he always did, quiet and careful, picking up each sheet. One of Ethan's drawings fell into my hand. I studied it: ink lines, shaded eyes, a face I'd seen in passing but never looked at. He was good. That annoyed me for reasons I couldn't name.
"Clumsy much?" I said, louder than necessary. A couple of boys snorted. I took one page and held it up close, tracing a finger over the face until their features blurred. Then I ripped it.
The sound of paper tearing cut through the hallway like a gunshot. For a second there was stunned silence. Someone gasped. Ethan froze, looking at the jagged edge in my hand as if I'd ripped a piece out of him.
"Cute sketch," I said, tossing the ruined page into a bin with the kind of casual cruelty I wore like perfume. "Maybe draw something useful — like how to fit in."
He didn't say anything. His mouth pressed thin. He gathered the undamaged pages, thumbed them once, and closed the book. The movement was slow and deliberate, the way someone tried to make sure nothing else was taken.
That afternoon I struck again.
During chemistry, I waited until the teacher's back was turned. I slipped a note into Ethan's desk — a small, carefully folded thing with a compliment written in bold: "You should smile more. You scare people." I knew it would hurt him. I knew exactly who would find it first: Jenna, the queen bee who liked to collect weaknesses like trophies.
Jenna read it aloud, loud enough for the class to hear. Her voice was syrupy, every syllable sweet and poisoned. "He needs to smile more, guys. So sad." Laughter like dry leaves.
Ethan's eyes flicked toward me for a fraction of a second. He didn't look angry — only tired. Like a man who carries weight below his ribs and has practiced holding it steady.
But the worst was the phone. Someone recorded Jenna waving the note like a flag and posted it to the school group with a short caption: "Ethan needs counseling lol #weirdkid." Views skyrocketed, comments came like a swarm.
I watched the numbers climb on the feed during lunch — 300, 600, 1,200. The world reduced him to a username and a mockery. People I'd never met chimed in. People I didn't recognize sent screenshots to our groupchat. It felt exhilarating — a wave I was riding — until I saw Ethan outside by the old bike racks, shoulders shaking in little, silent convulsions.
He wasn't crying in front of us. He had the discipline of someone who'd learned to hide everything on the surface. But when he thought no one could see, he bowed his head and let something small break.
That night he left school early. I heard about it the next day, like you hear about small animals run off after a storm. The rumor said he'd gone home. Another said he'd skipped the last class. A lot of people didn't care. They were already moving on — that's what the crowd does: find the next thing to stare at.
I wanted him to feel it. I wanted him to know the cost of standing quiet in a world that only welcomed loud. So I pushed the joke further.
At the assembly on Friday, Mr. Gray announced a talent showcase. It was the perfect trap. Someone had told me Ethan liked to sketch in public sometimes. I spread the word that the show would be a place to "show different talents." I made it sound like a joke, and the crowd swallowed it whole.
On the night, the auditorium thrummed with fluorescent lights and restless bodies. I sat near the front, lights painting the rows gold. I watched him enter the door — slow, hands in pockets, head down. He took the third seat from the aisle and kept his face turned toward the stage like he was guarding himself from being seen.
Halfway through, I texted Maya: "Now." She stood up and called out across the room, "Hey weird sketch boy, why don't you show us one of your creepy drawings?" Jenna laughed. Someone else shouted, "Do a scary face, Ethan!"
It was small at first, a ripple. Then the room started, like a tide swallowing something fragile. People whistled, hissed. Someone flashed a light at his face like an accusation. Heat rose in my jaw, a triumphant rush I couldn't stop.
He didn't move. He didn't answer. It was as if the whole auditorium suspended him, waiting for him to crack. And in the silence, he stood up.
He walked to the exit, holding himself in a way I'd never seen before — not defeated, but not unbroken either. The auditorium watched him go, half with curiosity, half with boredom. I wanted to call out more insults, to drag the moment longer, but something in me tightened. I felt the heat of everyone's attention like a physical thing pressing on my skin.
Outside, he leaned against the brick and pulled out his sketchbook. I saw him flip a page, not to draw, but to stare. His jaw trembled a little. He breathed in like someone trying to pull himself together from the inside out.
I walked up without thinking. I met his face and for one stupid second almost said something. Anything. But I wanted the power to stay mine. So I smiled instead — the kind of smile that said I'd won.
"Nice show," I said, loud enough for him to hear. "You made everyone feel better about themselves."
He didn't respond. He tucked the book under his arm and walked away down the alley, shoulders bent, the weight of the day pulling him forward.
That night I tossed and turned. I'd hurt him — yes — and it satisfied something cold in me, a part that liked the clarity of control. But under that was a strange, prickling unease I couldn't name. I told myself it was nothing: just another win on a long list.
But somewhere deep in the house of my chest, a small thing listened to the sound of his quiet leaving and learned the shape of a hollow.