There’s a boy in class.

Every day, he sits in the very front of the class, in that seat that no one else wants, with his books spread open in front of him and head lowered, gazing 90 degrees downwards. He rarely ever looks up, and when he does, it’s only to answer a question that the teacher up front demands he answers.

Even so, this boy answers that question with an easy, reassuring smile.

He’s always right, never wrong. He always looks at his notes and listens to the teacher, because he has nothing else to do in class. No friends to talk to, let alone text, as the teacher drones on about writers who died over fifty years ago. He just writes down notes, never looking away from the lined sheets of paper, dotted with letters in neat handwriting, until his name is called.

His head snaps up, dark eyes fixing on the teacher, dark eyes that suddenly seem to gain some sort of spark within them, as if they’re coming to life. Even though that spark seems like it’s dying as he smiles sweetly.

It’s like it’s a sign. That spark, that smile. It’s like his mind is trying to tell everyone that there’s nothing wrong with him, that he’s okay, when in actuality his heart and his body are screaming, begging for someone to come and save him from the endless nightmare that cages his mind in total darkness.

But of course the teacher doesn’t seem to notice at all.

She smiles, tells the boy that he got the question right, and proceeds to demand the rest of the class be as smart or study as hard as he does.

She doesn’t understand that it only makes it harder for the boy as the class jeers at him afterwards, calling him the teacher’s pet or yelling Asian stereotypes at him as he packs his books and flees the classroom.

There’s a boy in class.

Every day, after class, he finds himself the victim in some way, shape, or form.

As he gets his head stuffed in a toilet, his books scattered across the floor, or his body locked in a cold, dark closet, he wonders just what it is that these people want of him. He doesn’t understand what he did wrong.

He wonders if this is his punishment just for living.

And as he sits alone in the darkness, he realizes that even with his phone, he has no friends to call, no one to help get him out. He then realizes that he could scream for help, but remembers that he’s already tried that before.

It was the first time they locked him in the closet that he tried screaming. He yelled until his throat became raw, and all he heard in return was laughter coming from students who didn’t even know his name.

He remembers that he cried until the unaware janitor unlocked the closet, only to find an undersized freshman with teary, red eyes and bruises adorning his bare arms, sitting on the floor, huddled into a ball in hopes of finding some sort of relief from the cold. The janitor was shocked, to say the least, however offered to walk the boy to class.

The boy refused, knowing he’d just get picked on even more, only to receive detention from his freshman math teacher for being late to class without an explanation she could believe.

And that vicious cycle continues throughout the years.

He continues to be shoved into closets. His books are still scattered across the hallway. His hair always seems to be soaked from the amount of times he’s shoved into the toilets.

He comes to class late with dirty toilet water trickling from his hair down his face, and seeping into his clothing. He comes to class late with disorganized books that seem like they’ve been stepped on one too many times. He comes to class late shivering and cold, his eyes dark and his skin pale.

But he still accepts his punishment without a word. He just nods and goes to his seat.

He doesn’t say a thing.

There’s a boy in cla