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Chapter Three – Rumors and Walls
The next morning, Harry arrived at school earlier than usual. Not because he wanted to—he never did—but because he'd barely slept. His dreams had been strange. Vivid. That stupid smile of hers kept flashing in his head like a stuck film reel. He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe because it felt... real.
He sat in his usual seat in homeroom, hoodie up, arms crossed on the desk, eyes locked on nothing. The classroom was quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the lights above and the occasional rustle of paper as Ms. Doyle marked something behind her desk.
Students filtered in slowly. Laughter, whispers, footsteps. The same cycle, day after day.
Then she walked in.
Sophie Bennett. Bright curls bouncing with each step, denim jacket over a t-shirt that said "Be Kind Anyway." She clutched a blue notebook to her chest and scanned the room. Her eyes passed him, then stopped—and returned.
She smiled again.
Harry glanced away, but not fast enough. She saw him notice.
His stomach twisted.
Why did she keep doing that?
She took her seat like nothing had happened, flipping open her notebook and scribbling something in it. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Her handwriting was small and neat, like she was used to writing quickly. Maybe she was journaling. Maybe writing about him.
The idea made him feel weird—like he wanted to know what she thought, but also didn't want to know at all.
He didn't see her again until lunch.
This time, she didn't hesitate. She walked straight to his table, balancing a tray of food and her water bottle, and sat down without asking. Same seat as yesterday. Like it was already hers.
"You didn't say anything yesterday," she said, peeling the lid off a yogurt.
He stared at her. "You didn't leave."
She grinned. "So that makes us even."
Harry blinked. His fingers twitched near his tray. He didn't know what to say. His instinct was to ignore her, pretend she wasn't there—but she was. And the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was... different.
Across the cafeteria, eyes were already on them.
Mason leaned over to Jenna and whispered something. Jenna laughed and pulled out her phone.
Harry caught the flash of the camera.
Sophie noticed too. "Are they always like this?"
"Worse," he muttered.
She looked back at them, unbothered. "Let them stare."
He lowered his voice. "They're going to make this a thing."
"Maybe it should be a thing," she said casually, spooning yogurt into her mouth. "You know—'kindness.' Crazy concept."
Harry gave her a look. "You don't know what they're capable of."
"Neither do they," she replied.
He almost smiled. Almost.
She shook her head. "You don't deserve that."
He looked at her like she'd spoken a language he didn't understand. Don't deserve it? He'd been told he did. He'd been blamed for things that weren't his fault—rumors that stuck, stories that twisted who he was into something dark and dangerous.
One time, someone had accused him of vandalizing the gym lockers. No proof. Just a story. It spread like wildfire. He never got to tell his side. And it wasn't just the lockers—he'd been blamed for stolen test answers, a fight he hadn't even seen, and once, for setting off a fire alarm during a school assembly. That one earned him detention for two weeks.
After that, everyone avoided him like he was radioactive.
"Why do you care?" he asked, more harshly than he meant.
Sophie's smile faded slightly, but her voice stayed calm. "Because I've been the new kid before. I've seen how people build walls to survive. And I've seen how lonely it gets inside those walls."
Harry said nothing. He didn't know how to respond to that. No one had ever acknowledged his walls. Let alone tried to look past them.
"You're not as invisible as you think," she added, softer this time. "People just pretend not to see you. There's a difference."
He stared at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and suspicion.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Sophie paused for a moment, thinking.
"Nothing," she finally said. "I just want to know who you really are."
Harry scoffed. "What if I'm just the guy they say I am?"
"Then I guess I'll find out," she replied. "But I don't think you are."
He shook his head. "You'll get tired of this. Of me."
"Try me."
The way she said it—it wasn't a dare. It was a promise.
And it scared him.
Not because he didn't believe her, but because part of him wanted to.
For the rest of lunch, they sat together. She talked about her old school, how different things were in the city, how her dad's job had forced them to move. She didn't ask him anything too personal, just small things—what classes he hated (math), if he liked music (yes), and whether he ever drew (sometimes, but only when no one was looking).
He found himself answering without thinking, like the words slipped past the usual filter.
By the time lunch ended, Harry felt something he hadn't felt in years:
Less alone.
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