Chapter 3: Broken Chairs, Broken Walls

Things stayed quiet for a while, at least until it was time to pick electives.

The gossip faded, replaced by talk of schedules and clubs. I tried to ignore the stares, focusing on my own plans. This time, I’d make different choices.

In my previous life, I’d chosen humanities like Dylan. This time, I picked science and ended up in the same class as Mason.

I stared at the course selection form for a long time before checking the box. My hand hovered, heart pounding. It felt like a small rebellion, a line drawn in the sand. I was charting my own path now.

First day after the split, Mason was late and got stuck with a week of cleanup duty.

Mr. Sanchez handed out the brooms with a sigh. He looked exhausted. Mason just shrugged, his face unreadable. I caught his eye, but he looked away, headphones already in.

He didn’t come out of the office until after school was over. The classroom was empty. As I packed my bag at the door, Dylan blocked my way.

He loomed over me, the hallway lights throwing long shadows. His cologne hit me—cheap, and way too strong.

"Why’d you choose science?"

His voice had that edge, like he thought he was owed an answer. I just rolled my eyes, not giving him the satisfaction.

"Whether it’s English or science, it’s my decision. What’s it to you?"

I stood my ground, refusing to let him crowd me. My fists curled tight around my backpack straps, knuckles white. No way was I backing down.

Dylan’s eyes were hard.

He spat the words out like they tasted bad. I almost laughed—he sounded ridiculous.

I snorted. "Yeah, I like him. What, you gonna kill me?"

My sarcasm was sharp, and for a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—fear, maybe, or just surprise.

"Stop right there!" The tense standoff was broken by Dylan’s sudden shout.

His voice echoed down the empty hallway, bouncing off the lockers. I turned, confused.

I looked back. Mason had appeared out of nowhere, backpack on, headphones in, heading for the back door. He didn’t even notice the drama behind him.

He moved like he didn’t even notice the drama behind him.

Dylan grabbed a chair and stormed toward him in a rage. I braced myself, heart in my throat.

For a second, time seemed to slow. I saw the muscles tense in Dylan’s arms, the chair lifted high, his jaw clenched in fury.

Just as he raised the chair to smash it over Mason, I shoved Dylan aside. The chair crashed down on my back instead. A jolt of pain ripped through me, so sharp I couldn’t breathe.

Pain shot through me, hot and sharp. My knees buckled. The sound of the chair hitting the floor echoed in my ears.

The blow knocked me to the floor, my back throbbing with pain. I gasped, fighting not to cry out.

I gritted my teeth, blinking back tears. I wasn’t about to give Dylan the satisfaction of seeing me cry. No way.

Dylan, how did I never see how violent you were before?

My voice was shaky, but I forced myself to look him in the eye. He looked stunned, maybe even a little scared.

He tried to help me up, but I pushed his hand away.

His hand hovered in the air, uncertain. I shoved it aside, pulling myself up with the desk. Every movement hurt.

Dylan left, and the room fell silent again. The air felt thick, heavy with everything unsaid.

I watched his retreating back, the weight of everything pressing down. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing. My pulse hammered in my ears.

I sat there until the pain dulled, then got up and slipped past Mason on my way out.

I kept my head down, not wanting him to see me wince. Pride’s a stubborn thing. I wouldn’t let him see me weak.

"Let me take you to the hospital," Mason called from behind me. I froze, surprised by the softness in his voice.

"No need, someone’s coming to get me."

I tried to sound nonchalant, even though my back was screaming. I didn’t want to owe anyone—especially not him.

Back home, my back was red and swollen, but my backpack had taken most of the hit. It wasn’t too bad.

I checked in the bathroom mirror, biting my lip at the sight of the bruise. I’d had worse, but it still stung—physically and otherwise.

Mom asked what happened. I hesitated, then told her: Dylan hit me.

Her face went pale, then red with anger. She muttered something about calling his parents and the school. I just shrugged. No use hiding it now.

That night, Dylan’s parents brought him over to apologize, and his dad smacked him right in front of us. I blinked, shocked. Even for them, this was a lot.

The whole scene was awkward—Dylan’s mom crying, his dad red-faced, Dylan staring at the floor. I just sat there, arms crossed, wishing it was over. At least someone finally held him accountable.

For the next few days, Mom got me a tutor and kept me home from school.

She hovered over me, fussing, making sure I took my medicine and rested. I spent the days in sweatpants, working through math problems and watching reruns on TV.