The sun rose over the cracked pavement of the neighborhood, casting a pale light on the peeling paint of the row houses that lined the street. For the boy, it was another day, indistinguishable from the countless ones before it.
He trudged along the sidewalk, his sneakers scuffing against the uneven concrete, his thin frame hunched under a threadbare jacket. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a familiar ache that had long since become a companion.
His schoolbag, slung over one shoulder, was more patches than fabric, held together by stubborn will and a few clumsy stitches. The air was chilly, and his breath fogged in front of him, a fleeting reminder that he was still here, still moving forward despite everything.
At school, nothing changed. The hallways were a gauntlet of jeers and shoves, the same faces sneering at him as they always did. His body bore the marks of their cruelty—bruises hidden under his sleeves, a faint limp from a kick that had landed too well the day before.
He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum, trying to make himself small, invisible. It never worked. They always found him.
Lunch was no reprieve; the cafeteria was a battlefield where he sat alone, picking at a meager meal scavenged from whatever the school provided for kids like him, kids who couldn't afford to bring their own.
Poverty clung to him like damp rot. His clothes were secondhand, ill-fitting, and washed in a sink because the laundromat was a luxury they couldn't afford.
At home, the refrigerator hummed empty most days, and the single room he shared with his mother was a patchwork of cracked walls and flickering lights. She worked late, her face etched with exhaustion, leaving him to fend for himself.
He didn't blame her—she was trying, always trying—but it left him alone with his thoughts, his fears, and the relentless weight of a life that seemed to offer nothing but struggle.
The bullies were predictable, their taunts a monotonous script. They mocked his clothes, his hunger, the way he flinched at sudden movements. Yesterday, they'd cornered him behind the gym, their laughter sharp as they pushed him to the ground, their fists leaving new marks on his skin.
He hadn't fought back—he never did. Fighting only made it worse. Instead, he curled inward, waiting for it to end, counting the seconds until they grew bored and left him sprawled in the dirt. The memory lingered, a fresh wound in his mind as he walked to class, knowing today would likely be the same.
He wasn't sure when he'd started to feel like a ghost, drifting through the world without leaving a mark. People looked through him, not at him—teachers, classmates, even the janitor who swept the halls. He was a shadow, existing on the edges of their lives, unnoticed unless someone needed a target.
The thought should have hurt more, but it was just another fact, like the ache in his ribs or the way his stomach growled during quiet moments. He'd learned to swallow it down, to keep moving, because stopping meant thinking too hard about things he couldn't change.
School was a machine that churned on without him. The bell rang, and he shuffled to his first class, sliding into a desk at the back where he could avoid attention. The room smelled of chalk dust and old books, the walls lined with posters about math formulas and historical dates that meant nothing to him.
His classmates chattered, their voices a blur of noise that never included him. He pulled his notebook from his bag, its pages filled with doodles and half-finished notes, a testament to his distraction. The teacher would call on him eventually, and he'd mumble something to avoid trouble, but it was always a gamble whether anyone would notice he existed at all.
The world outside the school was no kinder. He thought of the walk home, the long stretch of streets where he'd pass groups of kids who might decide he was worth their time.
He thought of the apartment, the silence waiting for him there, broken only by the creak of the floorboards or the distant sound of his mother's key in the lock. He thought of the hunger, the way it twisted his insides, making it hard to focus on anything else.
And he thought of the bullies, their faces vivid in his mind, their laughter a sound he couldn't escape. Another day, another round of survival. That was all it ever was.
By the time he reached the classroom, his shoulders were already tense, braced for what might come. He sat, staring at the desk, its surface scarred with years of graffiti from kids who'd sat there before him.
Their names and crude drawings were a reminder that others had left their mark, however small, while he left nothing. Another day, he thought, his fingers tightening around the edge of his notebook. Just another day.
The classroom was a hum of activity as the teacher, Mrs. Callahan, stood at the front, her voice cutting through the chatter with practiced ease. She was a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled into a tight bun, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose as she scribbled equations on the chalkboard.
The lesson was algebra today, something about quadratic equations, and the board was a mess of numbers and letters that swam in the boy's vision.
He tried to follow, his pencil hovering over his notebook, but the concepts slipped through his mind like water through a sieve. It wasn't that he was stupid—he knew he wasn't—but focusing was a luxury he didn't have.
Mrs. Callahan's voice droned on, explaining how to factor polynomials, her tone flat and mechanical. She gestured at the board, her chalk tapping against it rhythmically, as if trying to hammer the knowledge into the students' heads.
Most of the class was only half-listening, some whispering to each other, others doodling or staring out the window. A girl in the front row raised her hand, her voice bright with confidence as she answered a question, earning a nod from Mrs. Callahan.
The boy watched her, envying the ease with which she existed in this space, the way she seemed to belong.
He shifted in his seat, the hard wood creaking under him. The classroom was too warm, the radiator in the corner clanking as it pumped out heat, making his eyelids heavy. He glanced at the clock above the door—only twenty minutes into the period, with another forty to go.
His stomach growled, loud enough that the girl in front of him turned slightly, her eyes flicking toward him before she looked away. He sank lower in his seat, cheeks burning, and tried to focus on the board. The equations stared back, meaningless, a puzzle he didn't have the energy to solve.
Mrs. Callahan called on a boy near the front, one of the ones who always had the right answer. His voice was loud, sure, and the teacher smiled as he explained his reasoning. The boy at the back watched, his pencil still in his hand, unmoving.
He wondered what it would be like to be that kid, to have answers that came easily, to have a life where the biggest worry was a pop quiz and not what might be waiting in the hallway after class. The thought was fleeting, replaced quickly by the familiar weight of reality.
The lesson continued, Mrs. Callahan moving on to graphing parabolas, her chalk scratching out curves and points on the board. The boy's eyes drifted to the window, where the gray sky pressed against the glass, promising rain later.
He thought about the walk home, the way the cold would seep into his bones, the way he'd have to keep his head down to avoid trouble. The classroom felt like a bubble, a temporary pause in the chaos of his life, but it wasn't safe, not really. It was just a different kind of battlefield.
His mind wandered, slipping away from the classroom, from the equations and the teacher's voice. He couldn't help it—he was always drifting, always retreating into himself. He felt invisible here, a ghost among the living, his presence barely registering to anyone but himself.
The other students laughed and whispered, their lives full of connections he couldn't touch. He wondered what it would be like to be seen, to be heard, to matter. The thought was a quiet ache, one he carried so often it had become part of him.
He thought about his mother, working late again, her hands rough from cleaning houses or waiting tables, whatever job she could find. He thought about the apartment, the way it smelled of mildew and desperation.
He thought about the bullies, their faces sharp in his memory, their voices loud even when they weren't there. After this class, he'd have to face them again.
The bell would ring, and the hallways would become a maze of danger, their laughter waiting to find him. He gripped his pencil tighter, his knuckles white, and tried to anchor himself in the present, but it was no use.
What could he do? Run? Hide? Fight back? He'd tried running once, but they'd caught him, their hands rough as they dragged him back. Hiding only delayed the inevitable—they always found him eventually. And fighting? He wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough.
The thought of standing up to them made his chest tight, his breath shallow. He was trapped, caught in a cycle he couldn't break, and the weight of it pressed down on him, heavier than any bruise.
He stared at his notebook, the blank page mocking him. Mrs. Callahan was still talking, her voice a distant hum, but he couldn't hear her anymore. His mind was elsewhere, spiraling through the what-ifs and whys that plagued him.
Why was he here? Why was this his life? What was the point of enduring, day after day, when nothing ever changed? He felt like he was drowning in it, the hopelessness, the invisibility, the constant fear. And yet, he kept going, because what else was there?
The bell would ring soon, and he'd have to move, to face the world again. He thought about the paths he could take through the school, the corners he could avoid, the places where he might slip through unnoticed.
But it was a fantasy—there was no escaping them, not really. They were a storm, and he was just a leaf caught in their wind. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he could disappear, wishing he could be anywhere else, anyone else.
As the class dragged on, his thoughts drifted to the one place where he wasn't invisible, where he wasn't powerless. In the worlds of the role-playing games he played, he was someone else—someone strong, someone important.
On the weekends, when he could scrape together a few hours at the library's computers or borrow a friend's old console, he'd lose himself in those worlds. There, he was a warrior, a mage, a hero on a quest, not a boy with bruises and an empty stomach. The games were his refuge, the only place where he felt like he belonged.
He remembered the first time he'd played one, a battered disc he'd found at a thrift store, its case cracked but the game still functional. It was a fantasy RPG, full of sprawling landscapes and epic battles, and he'd been hooked from the first moment.
In that world, he could fight dragons, save kingdoms, make choices that mattered. The characters he played had names, backstories, purposes.
They weren't ghosts—they were legends. He'd spent hours leveling up, collecting gear, memorizing every detail of the story, because there, he had control.
Even now, in the middle of algebra, his mind conjured images of those worlds. He saw himself wielding a sword, its blade glowing with enchanted light, standing against a horde of enemies.
He saw himself casting spells, the air crackling with power, his enemies falling before him. In those moments, he wasn't weak, wasn't afraid. He was the hero, the one everyone looked to, the one who changed the course of the story. The thought made his chest ache with longing, a need so deep it hurt.
The games were more than escape—they were proof that he could be something more. In their worlds, choices had consequences, and effort was rewarded. If he trained, he grew stronger. If he fought, he could win.
It was so different from his real life, where no matter how hard he tried to keep his head down, the blows kept coming. He thought about the characters he'd created, their names written in his notebook alongside the doodles, their stories alive in his mind. They were his, in a way nothing else was.
Sometimes, he'd lie awake at night, the apartment silent except for the drip of a leaky faucet, and he'd imagine himself in those worlds. He'd walk through forests of towering trees, their leaves shimmering with magic, or stand on cliffs overlooking cities of stone and light.
He'd talk to companions who valued him, who fought beside him, who saw him. It was a fantasy, he knew, but it was one that kept him going, one that made the real world bearable for just a little longer.
Mrs. Callahan's voice snapped him back to the classroom, her tone sharp as she called on someone else. He blinked, realizing he'd missed half the lesson, his notebook still blank.
The clock showed only a few minutes left, and his stomach twisted at the thought of the bell. He closed his eyes again, just for a second, and let himself linger in the memory of a game, a moment where he'd stood victorious, the world saved, the music swelling as the credits rolled.
For now, it was enough to keep him moving forward, one step at a time, into the storm that waited outside.