Standing by the lockers, Chase suddenly broke the comfortable silence with a loud declaration. "Seriously, you can't wear sandals without socks. That's like, rule number one for guys!" he said, a mix of amusement and mock outrage coloring his voice.

Belly, ever quick with a comeback, tilted her head and asked, "But what if we don’t have any socks? What then?"

Chase pursed his lips tightly, clearly caught off guard by the question. His eyes then darted swiftly down the corridor. "Uh-oh, that’s Haze and his crew," he muttered, voice low but urgent. "We should get out of here before they spot us."

I followed his gaze, curiosity piqued. "Why? What’s the problem?"

Chase dropped his books hurriedly into his bag. "Because they make life miserable for anyone who’s not them. Trust me, you want to avoid that."

Aaron, who’d been standing nearby, frowned. "Why do we have to hide in our own school?"

I sighed, feeling the familiar heaviness settle in my chest. "Not this again. Let’s just go. The bell’s about to ring anyway."

But Aaron shook his head stubbornly and stepped forward. "No, not this time. Hey, Haze, over here!"

Haze cut off his conversation with his friends and turned toward us. Chase grabbed Aaron’s arm sharply. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

"Standing up for us," Aaron said fiercely. "That jerk deserves a beating."

Chase rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "From whom, Aaron? He’s the football captain. We’re... well, us. We have zero chance."

Belly glanced nervously toward the approaching group. "Guys, he’s coming. Now."

Chase instinctively took hold of both Aaron’s and Belly’s hands and bolted. "Catch up, Eve!" he called over his shoulder.

Before I could react, Haze was already looming in front of me, his height and presence overwhelming.

"Where do you think you’re going, Eve?" he asked, crossing his arms with a smirk playing on his lips.

I backed away slowly, clutching my bag tightly against my side. "I’m just—"

He cut me off, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Looks like it's time for a little bag inspection."

My grip tightened, shaking my head. "Please, don’t—"

With an impatient sigh, he snatched the bag from me and dumped its contents out on the floor. Then his gaze landed on something that made his expression shift, a faint smile teasing his lips.

He crouched and picked up a small, worn notebook. "What’s this?"

"That’s my journal," I said quickly, stepping forward. "It was a gift from my dad."

He held it just out of reach, waving it teasingly. "Give it back!" I pleaded, reaching up.

He wagged a finger in front of my face. "Now, now, I haven’t even read it yet." His eyes sparkled with a cruel amusement. "It’d be rude to keep all the fun to myself without sharing."

"No, please, don’t!" I begged, desperation creeping into my voice.

He looked deeply into my eyes, then without hesitation, tore the pages apart. One by one, the fragile sheets fluttered to the floor.

I collapsed to my knees, trying frantically to gather the scattered scraps, but their scattered chaos was overwhelming.

Hot tears spilled down my face, burning with the sting of loss and humiliation. That journal wasn’t just paper — it was my voice, my refuge.

Around us, students watched. Some bit their lips, trying not to chuckle; others openly laughed at my pain.

I looked up at Haze, searching for any hint of regret but found none — just his usual bored, indifferent expression.

Then his face twisted into a mock frown. "Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Didn’t know people still scribbled in diaries these days."

Laughter erupted again from the onlookers as I curled into myself on the cold floor.

Wiping my tear-streaked face, I stuffed the torn pages clumsily back into my bag and fled to the old, rarely used bathroom on the first floor — my secret hideaway.

Inside a stall, I sat on the closed toilet seat, tracing the edges of the crumpled paper. Even if I tried to tape them back, the task would be daunting, and I wasn’t sure I’d collected every piece.

My phone buzzed — Belly calling. I stared at the screen but couldn’t bring myself to answer. They had run away and left me behind. I switched my phone off, plunging into silence.

What had I done to deserve this? It started with little pranks—books gone missing, whispers behind my back. But this felt different. Personal. Malicious.

Haze and I were strangers at best. We’d never even had a proper conversation. So why did he single me out like this?

I recalled Aaron’s words about standing up to him. I’d resisted the idea, but now, I realized I couldn’t keep hiding. Something had to change.

Mustering what was left of my courage, I wiped my cheeks, stood, and headed for the History classroom — the place I’d overheard Haze say he’d be, planning the next big football game.

The halls were thankfully empty, the echoes of my footsteps muted as I approached the door.

Before turning the knob, I took a deep breath. I had no idea what I’d face inside, but I knew this confrontation was necessary.

Inside, Haze sat at the back, headphones on, scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper.

I marched forward without hesitation.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I demanded, my voice trembling but firm.

He barely looked up, absorbed in his notes. I slammed my hand down on the desk, making him startle.

His eyes widened when he realized it was me. He yanked off his headphones, a sharp edge cutting through his usual calm.

"Back for round two?" he said, voice low and serious.

"Why do you keep picking on me?" I asked, searching his face for any sign of explanation.

He leaned back, arms crossing defensively. "Doing what?" His tone was incredulous, like he didn’t even recognize his own actions.

Frustrated that he wouldn’t admit it, I stepped closer. "You know exactly what I mean. That journal meant everything to me."

He remained silent, eyes locked on mine, unreadable and cold.

"Please," I whispered, "I just want to understand."

Suddenly, he stood and took a step back. "Stay away from me, freak!" he spat.

Undeterred, I matched his step, closing the distance. "Just tell me why, Haze." My voice was desperate, aching for an answer.

He kept retreating until his back hit the wall. Then, almost out of nowhere, his demeanor shifted from disdain to frustration.

He grabbed my wrists, pinning me gently but firmly against the wall, his breath quickening. "You think I want to do this?" he growled. "You leave me no choice. You're so irritating, and I hate myself for it. Every time I walk into a room, your face is the first I see. Every time I see your weird friends, I'm reminded of you. I hate being in the same classes, seeing you in the hallways. I hate that you get under my skin."

His words hit me like a punch. We were so close I could feel his warmth, his intense gaze burning into me. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the air seemed to thicken around us.

I opened my mouth to speak, heart pounding.

Before I could say a word, he leaned in suddenly, closing the space between us, his lips pressing fiercely against mine.

Shock crashed through me, freezing everything for a moment. Then a thousand emotions surged — confusion, anger, fear, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

He pulled back slightly, searching my eyes. "I hate you," he whispered harshly, "but I can’t stop thinking about you."

My breath hitched, caught between disbelief and something fragile blooming inside me.

The chaos of the moment hung heavy, a fragile thread stretched taut between us, promising that nothing could ever be the same again.