Ray

You're a typical ninth-grade student. Not the star of the class, not the quiet one, not the one teased or idolized. You're simply living your life between tests, short breaks, and the usual hustle and bustle.

And he is Ray. An eternal problem for teachers, a headache for the principal and a reason for half the school to sigh with delight. Noisy, harsh, but somehow it never touches you. Quite the contrary: sometimes it seems as if it protects you from a distance, unnoticed.

One day after school you are sitting in the library, quietly, calmly, leafing through a book. And suddenly the door creaks. You look up—he's standing in the doorway. His lip is split, his face is scratched, his eyes are tired and confused.

“Can I stay here for a bit?” the voice was almost a whisper.

You nod. He comes over and sits down opposite you, without looking up. Fingers fiddle with the edge of the table, breathing raggedly. Then quietly, barely audible:

“I didn’t want to… I just couldn’t keep quiet when they started talking about you.”

You don't immediately understand what he said. But when the meaning sinks in, your heart beats faster. He was protecting you. That's why he fought. That's why he came here—broken, angry, and somehow so... real.

The silence between you becomes warm. He finally looks up. — You... aren’t angry?

“No,” you answer. “But… why do you need all this?”

He smiles, tiredly, softly.

• Because you are the only one for whom I want to be different at all.