Tom's POV
Didn't matter how fast I moved or how much I kept out of Tyler's way—he was everywhere. Him or one of his fucking lapdogs. If it wasn't his glare burning into me from across the cafeteria, it was a shoulder check in the hallway, a shove against the lockers, a whispered threat I had to swallow down. My reflection in the mirror told the story—black eyes, split lip, bruises that bloomed across my skin like fucking reminders that I couldn't escape him.
Every day was a new mark. A new reason to hate him more.
And still, no matter how many times I told myself to block it all out, I couldn't stop seeing her face in the back of my head—soft, open, disappointed. Like she wanted something real.
But nothing about Tyler or Imogen was ever going to be real.
Not for me. Not Ever
Imogen's POV
"Hey, Tom—wait up!" I called, breaking away from my group of friends as he passed by.
I jogged to catch him, my voice cutting through the chatter in the hallway, but he didn't even flinch. Not a glance. Not a single acknowledgment that I even existed. He just kept walking, shoulders stiff, his pace quickening like the sound of my voice was something he had to escape from.
Like I was nothing.
My steps faltered. A hollow sting spread across my chest, that awful mix of embarrassment and hurt. Why was he treating me like this? Why was he acting like I'd done something so unforgivable?
He could at least acknowledge me. I told myself to shrug it off, to let him go, but my eyes wandered—maybe looking for some kind of answer I already dreaded. And there he was.
Tyler.
Of course. Leaning against the lockers just a few feet away, arms crossed, watching. His stare wasn't on Tom though—it was on me. A cold shiver rippled through me. And suddenly, Tom ignoring me was the least of my problems.
Tom's POV
Imogen's voice rang out behind me, sharp and clear above the noise of the hallway. "Tom!" I didn't slow down. Didn't even flinch. My jaw locked, my fists clenched around the straps of my bag. I wasn't gonna let her, or anyone else, crawl into my head and fuck with my mental. Not now. Not ever.
Still… my chest ached, my legs heavy like I was dragging chains. Against every ounce of common sense, I turned my head, just for a second.
Because some stupid, reckless part of me, called my heart, still wanted to believe she wasn't like him. That she wasn't part of his game. That maybe, just maybe, she'd meant what she said at the gate.
But of course, my heart was a fucking liar. Because I saw her. Walking straight up to Tyler. His smirk already waiting for her. My stomach twisted, a sick knot of anger and something worse. I'm a fucking idiot. A gullible, pathetic idiot.
I slipped into art class during my free period, needing somewhere quiet, somewhere I could just breathe without eyes crawling all over me. Mr. Andris was already there, hunched over a canvas, brush gliding smooth and steady like he'd been born with it in his hand. The room smelled like paint , soft classical music humming from the speaker connected to his phone on the desk.
"Morning, Mr. Andris. Can I grab a canvas too?" I asked, my voice low. He didn't look up, just nodded toward the storeroom. I grabbed a blank canvas and set it down beside him. The chair squeaked under me as I sat, and for a while the only sounds were his brush strokes and the soft notes of Mozart. It was… calm. Too calm.
"You know, Tom… art is a form of self-Communication. Artists come in all shapes and sizes—musicians, poets, writers, sculptors. But they all have one thing in common."
His gaze stayed locked on his painting, like the answer was already written there.
I frowned. "No," I muttered, not really following where he was going.
"Expression, Tom." He finally dipped his brush, streaking bold color across the canvas. "All artists express themselves through their art. They can draw, write, or sing their heart's desires without having to say it. Their pain, their pleasure, their desires, their scars—all of it ends up in a song, or a poem, or a…"
"Or a drawing," I finished for him. My throat tightened as the words slipped out. Because I knew exactly where he was going with this. The blind sketches. Imogen's outline on my pages.
He gave the faintest smile, still focused on his work.
"You're a great artist, Tom. You've got real talent," he said softly. Then his tone shifted, gentler, probing. "But something's bothering you. I can see it. It's bleeding into your work."