By Wednesday morning, everyone had a theory.
"He transferred."
"He's in trouble."
"He got suspended."
Someone even whispered, "He tried to hurt himself."
I hated that last one. It stuck to my skin like cold rain.
By second period, I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to know.
Not for gossip. Not for attention.
For something I couldn't even name.
I caught the secretary in the front office while she was sorting files.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said, pretending to be casual. "I need to drop off some assignments for Ethan Gray. Could I get his address?"
She looked up suspiciously. "You're a friend of his?"
"Yeah," I lied quickly. "He asked me to bring them."
She studied me for a moment, then sighed and scribbled something on a sticky note.
"Don't make this a habit, Miss Blake. Privacy rules."
"Of course," I said, smiling faintly as I tucked the note into my pocket.
Willow Street. Number 24.
The walk there was longer than I expected. The neighborhood changed block by block — bright houses fading into quiet corners and cracked pavements. I didn't even realize how fast my heart was beating until I reached the end of the street.
Number 24 was small — white paint peeling off the walls, an old oak tree leaning near the porch. The curtains were drawn, but one window was cracked open slightly.
I hesitated at the gate. What if he didn't want to see me?
What if I made everything worse?
But I'd come too far to turn back.
I knocked.
For a while, nothing. Then footsteps. The door opened just enough for me to see his guardian — a tired-looking woman with gentle eyes and a scarf tied around her head.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Hi… um, I'm Aria. From school. I just wanted to check on Ethan."
Her expression softened but turned guarded. "He's resting."
"Is he okay?" I asked quietly.
She sighed. "He's had a rough week. He's… trying to get himself together."
I nodded, guilt clawing at my stomach. "Could I maybe see him? Just to say sorry. For… you know."
Her gaze lingered on me for a long moment before she finally said, "Wait here."
Minutes passed.
I stood on the porch, staring at my shoes, at the cracked wood, at the sunlight sneaking through the branches.
Then the door opened again.
Ethan stood there.
He looked… different. His hair was messy, his eyes dull but sharp around the edges — like someone who'd been through something heavy and hadn't quite recovered. He wasn't angry. Just quiet.
"What are you doing here, Aria?" he asked softly.
My mouth went dry. "I— I just wanted to check if you were okay."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "Why? Need someone else to laugh at?"
"I didn't come here for that."
"Then why?"
I looked away. "Because I can't stand everyone talking about you. I just wanted to see you for myself."
He studied me — long and hard — then said, "You made me believe I could trust someone again. That's what hurt the most."
I froze. I wanted to defend myself, to say it was just a joke, that I didn't mean it like that. But the words wouldn't come.
"I'm sorry," I whispered instead.
He nodded slightly. "Sorry doesn't erase things. But… thanks for saying it."
He turned and closed the door gently — not slamming it, just quietly shutting me out.
I stood there for a while, staring at the chipped paint, the silence behind the door.
Then I walked home under a sky that looked too heavy for daylight.
I thought bullying him made me powerful.
But watching him close that door made me realize I was the weakest person I knew.