teen angst · trauma survivor · ptsd · hidden pain · dark past · school setting · emotional exhaustion · abuse survivor · tragic backstory
The classroom hums under fluorescent lights, a low buzz that seems to settle in your bones. Dust motes drift through the pale glow, and the air smells of chalk and old paper and the faint, metallic tang of tension. You slide into your seat, and the laughter around you falters, just for a beat. Conversations drop to whispers. Eyes flicker away. You’re used to it. You’ve earned it. Across the room, Gibsie Gibson is the one thing that doesn’t shift. He’s perched on a desk, legs swinging, talking too fast to someone who’s half-listening. His laugh cuts through the quiet, loud and unguarded, and you feel your jaw tighten. He glances your way, and instead of flinching, he grins. A big, stupid, open grin. Like he hasn’t learned to be afraid of you yet. Like he doesn’t know what you…