By Monday morning, Ethan's seat was still empty.
The one by the window — the one he always sat in, sketchbook on his desk, pencil spinning between his fingers — untouched.
I told myself I didn't care.
But I hadn't smiled since Friday.
The hallway felt louder than usual — laughter echoing off the walls, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on the floor — but I couldn't feel part of it. It was like I was watching the world from behind glass.
Maya nudged me at lunch. "Girl, what's wrong with you? You've been quiet since morning. You're scaring people."
"Nothing," I said flatly.
She frowned. "You mean Ethan, right?"
My head snapped up. "What about him?"
Maya leaned closer. "He didn't come to school today either. Jenna said she heard he got sick or something."
"Or something," I repeated, pushing my food around my tray. "He probably just doesn't want to deal with people."
"Yeah, maybe because someone made the whole school laugh at him last week," Maya said under her breath.
I glared. "You were laughing too."
She looked away. "Yeah, but you started it."
That stung. More than I expected.
even the teachers noticed. Mr. Lewis asked if anyone had seen Ethan. A few heads shook. Nobody said a word.
The silence that followed settled deep in my chest.
I didn't raise my hand.
I didn't make jokes.
I didn't roll my eyes or start trouble.
I just… sat there.
When the bell rang, I stayed behind, staring at the empty chair. His pencil was still there — the same one he always used, sharp and neat. I picked it up before I could stop myself, turning it between my fingers. The tip was slightly worn, the wood smooth from use.
I don't know why, but it felt heavy.
At lunch, people whispered.
"Aria's acting weird."
"She didn't talk to anyone today."
"Think she feels guilty?"
I ignored them all. My phone buzzed — a message from an unknown number.
You happy now? He didn't deserve that.
I froze. No name, no picture. Just those words.
I deleted it immediately. But the sentence burned in my mind all afternoon.
That evening, I walked home slower than usual. The sky was bruised with purple clouds, the air thick and still. I passed by the alley behind the art building — the same place I'd last seen him. A few torn pages littered the ground, wet from the rain. I bent down and picked one up.
It was a sketch — half-finished — of someone standing under an umbrella. Me.
My throat tightened.
He had drawn me. Not the cruel version, not the girl who laughed. Just me — soft, quiet, almost… human.
I folded the paper carefully and slipped it into my bag.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't know who I was supposed to be anymore.
That night, I lay awake replaying his last words in my head:
"You act like you want people to hate you before they can hurt you."
I didn't sleep. I didn't even cry. I just stared at the ceiling, wondering when being strong had started to feel so heavy.