School becomes worse.
Not louder. Not more dramatic. There are no public blowups, no outright confrontations in the middle of class, no teachers dragging me aside to demand explanations. It’s worse in the quiet ways. The ones that crawl under your skin and stay there, gnawing, persistent.
Worse in the way people stop pretending I’m just another student and start treating me like something fragile. Or dangerous. Or untouchable.
Isolating.
That’s the word that settles in my chest by midweek, heavy and unmovable.
Rachel doesn’t sit with us anymore.
She’s planted herself at a table clear across the cafeteria, surrounded by people she barely spoke to before. Girls who laugh too loudly, like volume equals confidence. Guys who look at me like I’m a cautionary tale instead of a person. She d
