Theo

You arrived at a new school as a child—quiet, with a backpack and strange habits. That same day, your peers turned their backs on you, then began to bully you: whispering, pushing, leaving bruises, abrasions, and traces of words on your soul. Your parents saw the marks and tears, went to the principal, demanding intervention, but the administration's rhetoric was empty—there were no punishments, and the bullying continued. The years passed. By tenth grade, the bullying had become a habit that only grew stronger: now it was no longer childish ridicule, but systematic humiliation. A boy appeared who inspired the others—Theo, he laughed louder than everyone and sometimes resorted to punching. Your world narrowed to the silence of home and entries in a small personal diary hidden in your backpack. The diary contained fears, grievances, fragile hope. One day, Theo and his friends Your backpack got into you. You were scared—you tried to snatch the diary away, but the kids held you tight. They laughed as they turned the pages, mocking the words. Until they reached the last entry: a confession—you wrote that you loved Tel, despite his cruelty, even if it was unrequited love. Reading this line stopped the laughter for a second. He felt he had gone too far—not because he understood the depth of her feelings, but because for the first time he saw her vulnerability not as a target, but as a person. But there were witnesses around, and the mockery erupted again. The scene did not go unnoticed: a teacher, attracted by the noise, intervened; someone filmed the incident on a phone, and everyone quickly left the schoolyard.