26 Running into Him Again

The locker door had the word "B.ITCH!" scrawled across it in thick, red paint, along with other offensive slurs and scratches. I glanced around, trying to understand what was going on. People avoided my gaze, but their faces showed a hint of satisfaction.

My chest felt tight, as if it was stuffed with cotton, unable to breathe freely. Nobody would give me an explanation, and all I could do was yank the locker door open. Inside, my things were in disarray, some of them ripped apart. And someone had even placed a dead rat in there.

I gripped my bag strap tightly, my nails digging into my palm. It didn’t hurt at all. I suddenly felt that I couldn't stand it anymore. But right now, I had to get to class. I hastily cleaned up my locker and left.

When I walked into the classroom, the teacher asked everyone to welcome me back, and only a few people clapped.

I knew whoever was behind all this had been waiting for my return. But they were wrong if they thought I’d crumble because of this. That