Chapter 1:
died living.
It always started the same way.
Someone trips.
Someone cries.
Someone points.
And they point at him.
“Why’d you push her!?”
“I didn’t…”
The teacher sighed. “You again?”
He didn’t answer. He knew what came next.
In elementary school, his friend tripped on a rock during tag. The other boy said, “He pushed him!” and everyone believed it. He apologized, even though he hadn’t touched anyone.
In middle school, a classmate’s eraser went missing. He had been sitting nearby. “Did you take it?” they asked. He said no. They checked his bag anyway.
Nothing was there. But the teacher told him to be more careful.
Another time, a boy fell off his chair while goofing around. He happened to be walking past. The boy laughed it off. The teacher blamed him.
He apologized again.
Now, in high school, it happened more often.
On Monday, the homeroom door was found unlocked. The teacher asked who was the last to leave. No one answered. He had stayed back to finish cleaning.
They assumed it was him.
On Tuesday, someone spilled water on the floor in the hallway. A girl slipped. He was nearby, holding a water bottle.
“It’s his fault,” someone said.
He dried the floor with tissues and moved on.
On Wednesday, a classmate’s test paper went missing. It was later found under the teacher’s desk. Somehow, his name still came up.
On Thursday, a fire alarm went off during break. Everyone returned to the classroom except him. He had gone to the infirmary for a headache.
The teacher asked, “Why weren’t you with the others?”
He didn’t answer.
On Friday, a girl ran out of the room crying.
He hadn’t spoken to her. He hadn’t even looked at her.
Later that day, a rumor started.
They said he stalked her. That he cornered her behind the building. That he whispered something in her ear.
None of it was true.
She never denied it.
He was called to the office. His parents were informed. His mother slapped him that night. His father didn’t come home. His sister wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“You’re ruining this family,” his mother said. “What is wrong with you?”
He sat alone in his room. The lights off. His schoolbag still packed.
The next morning, someone had drawn on his desk with permanent marker.
“Weirdo.”
“Creep.”
“Stay away.”
No one looked at him.
During lunch, he sat under the stairs alone.
He found a sandwich in his locker. It was squished. Rotten. Wrapped in plastic.
A note was stuck to it.
“Eat trash like the trash you are.”
He threw it away without reacting.
After school, a ball from the soccer field rolled toward him. He stopped it with his foot and kicked it back. One of the players laughed.
“Don’t touch our stuff.”
He walked away.
He passed the vending machines near the gates. That’s where it happened a month ago. A girl had spilled her drink and started crying.
He gave her his handkerchief.
The next day, they said he tried to touch her.
The girl never said anything.
But she never corrected them either.
Now, she watched him from across the classroom. Sometimes. When she thought he wasn’t looking.
She had tried to talk to him once. Just once.
She stood in front of his desk. Her mouth opened. Then closed.
He stared back at her.
She left.
He hadn’t said a word.
No one sat near him anymore. Even the seat beside him stayed empty.
During group activities, he was left alone.
During cleaning, no one shared the duties with him.
At lunch, the cafeteria staff hesitated when handing him his tray.
At home, dinner was quiet. No one spoke to him unless it was to scold him.
He had stopped trying to explain. There was nothing left to explain.
Everything he did became another reason to hate him.
And yet, he still showed up to school. On time. In uniform. With his books.
As if he were still trying to be good.
As if it mattered.
That night, he stood in front of the mirror.
His reflection stared back, hollow and pale.
He raised a hand and touched the bruised part of his arm. Someone had elbowed him in the hallway earlier.
It hadn’t hurt that much.
Not really.
He turned off the bathroom light and stood in the dark.
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