"Watch where you're going, you asshole."
Once again, Neïle had to endure the mocking laughter erupting behind him.
He wondered what he could have done so wrong to deserve this.
He lowered his head in shame, crushed by those hateful stares.
He forced himself not to burst into tears. If he cried, the mockery would only get worse.
Why me?
What did I do to make you treat me like this?
Did I sleep with your mother to make you hate me so much?!
These words spun through his mind. Burning. Violent.
Those were the words he wanted to say.
But no sound came out.
They were stuck in his throat, suffocated by the eyes fixed on him.
He lowered his gaze.
As always.
The laughter continued behind him.
Even when he could no longer hear it clearly, it still clung to him.
Like something stuck to his skin.
---
When he entered the classroom, the scraping of chairs and the murmur of voices felt distant.
It was as if he had arrived somewhere he no longer belonged.
Classes resumed. Neïle was elsewhere, lost in thought.
He had always been the model student. Attentive. Quiet. Hard-working.
Now everything was falling apart.
He felt like he was being thrown brutally from the pedestal he had once stood on, unable to understand how he had fallen so low.
One heavy thought kept coming back.
To stop everything.
But he didn't do it.
He didn't really want to.
Deep down, he would always be that poor dog shut off from the world, unable to change or escape.
Neïle stared out the window for a long time.
The sky was grey and still. Almost comforting.
Much more than the classroom behind him.
"Neïle."
He didn't hear.
"Neïle."
A few heads turned. Whispering followed. Then a stifled laugh.
"Neïle."
He flinched and looked away from the window. Too late. The whole class was already staring at him.
The teacher let out a long sigh.
"When are you finally going to concentrate? Do you think you're here to daydream?"
Neïle lowered his gaze. His fingers tightened around his pen.
"Gather your things. You're going to see the headteacher."
His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood. The sound felt deafening.
He crossed the classroom under the gaze of his classmates, not daring to meet a single pair of eyes.
---
The hallway was silent.
Each step echoed.
Neïle wanted someone to stop him.
He wanted someone to say it was a mistake.
But the office door was already there.
Right in front of him.
---
The headteacher's office was silent. Too silent.
"Sit down, Neïle."
The man didn't shout. He spoke calmly. Almost gently.
"The teachers are worried about you. Your grades have dropped. You're not the same as before."
Neïle nodded slowly.
"Is something going on at home?"
"..."
"Or at school?"
The silence stretched.
The headteacher sighed again, but this time without irritation.
"I think it would be good for you to talk to the school psychologist."
Neïle didn't answer.
---
A few minutes later, he was sitting in another room.
Small. Bright. Too quiet.
The psychologist smiled and gestured to the chair.
"You can sit down."
He obeyed.
She waited before speaking.
"I've been told things haven't been going very well for you lately."
"..."
"You can speak freely here. No one will judge you."
Neïle stared at the floor. His hands trembled slightly on his knees.
Silence fell. Long. Heavy.
She wrote something in her notebook.
"It's okay if you don't feel like talking today."
Deep down, Neïle knew something.
Even if he wanted to talk, he wouldn't know where to begin.
The psychologist gently closed her notebook.
"I'm going to write you a note. You're going home for a few days. Get some rest. I think you need it."
She handed him the paper.
"You don't have to carry everything on your own."
He took it without answering.
---
Outside, the air was cold.
He walked without looking where he was going.
He wanted the journey to last.
A very long time.
Eventually, the house came into view.
The front door slammed behind him.
His parents were already in the living room. Sitting. Waiting. Tense.
They didn't even stand up.
"What's this now?" His father waved his phone. "The school called us."
Neïle stood still, the note crumpled in his hand.
"Honestly," his father continued, voice rising. "On top of ruining our lives, you're now making the school think we're mistreating you?"
"Do you realise what you're doing?" his mother added. "We've given you everything. Everything. And this is how you thank us?"
The words came one after another without giving him time to breathe.
"I never said that," he whispered.
"Oh really? Then why are they talking about a psychologist? What do you want us to look like? Monsters?"
Neïle opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
"I'm just trying..." His voice trembled.
"Stop it," his mother cut in. "Stop playing the victim."
He lowered his gaze. His hands were shaking.
He wanted to explain.
He wanted to say he wasn't okay.
He wanted to say he couldn't take it anymore.
But the words tangled together in his mind. Heavy. Useless.
So he stayed silent.
As always.
"Go to your room," his father said.
"We'll talk about this when you stop messing around," his mother added.
Neïle didn't answer.
He climbed the stairs slowly, as if each step weighed more than the last.
---
His room was exactly as he had left it.
Too quiet. Too still.
He closed the door and leaned against it. His breathing was uneven.
Then he slid down to the floor.
The thoughts came back.
Always the same ones.
It won't hurt anyone.
No one will notice.
He closed his eyes. His hands trembled.
He stayed there for a long time, fighting something he couldn't even name.
Eventually, exhaustion took over.
Neïle lay down on his bed, still fully dressed.
The ceiling above him blurred.
His eyelids grew heavy.
Too heavy.
As sleep finally pulled him under, images resurfaced.
The start of the school year.
The looks.
That exact moment when everything changed.
Back then, he hadn't had the strength to look away.