The sky was gray, suffocating the small town of East Willow under a heavy mist. It wasn't raining — not yet — but the clouds hung low like sorrow trapped in the air.
At Willowridge High School, the students gathered in noisy clusters, dressed in their new spring uniforms — white shirts, navy pants for the boys, navy skirts for the girls, all lined with golden stripes. The fabric was crisp, but the laughter was anything but kind.
In the very corner of the courtyard, near the old crumbling fountain that the school board had promised to fix for years but never did, stood a boy.
He wore a secondhand uniform that didn't quite fit — the sleeves hung too long, and the pants were frayed at the bottom. His name was Elian Carter, seventeen years old, 5'9", slim to the point of looking fragile, with pale, almost sickly skin, shaggy black hair that he never managed to tame, and dark brown eyes that seemed permanently lowered to the ground.
The students didn't see him.
Not really.
When they looked at him, they saw a ghost, a shadow, a punching bag for their boredom.
"Hey, Carter!" a voice jeered — it was Damian Holt, the captain of the basketball team. Eighteen, tall, muscular, brown-skinned with a shaved head and a vicious smirk that never left his face. He wore his uniform half-open, exposing a gold chain and muscles he loved to flex for the girls.
Before Elian could react, Damian flicked his half-full soda cup at him.
The cold drink splattered all over Elian's white shirt, staining it yellow and sticky.
The courtyard exploded with laughter.
"Oops," Damian said, mocking fake concern. "Better luck next lifetime, loser."
Elian bit his lip hard enough to taste blood but said nothing. If he spoke, it would only make it worse.
A group of girls sitting on the marble bench nearby watched, whispering and giggling behind manicured hands. Among them was Sophia Lin, seventeen, the reigning "Willowridge Beauty Queen," with golden-brown skin, perfect glossy black hair in loose curls, and a figure that made her the envy of the school.
Sophia wore her uniform like it was a runway outfit, the skirt hitched slightly higher than regulations allowed, her blouse a little too tight.
She laughed the loudest.
"He looks like he hasn't showered in days," she said, tossing her hair.
"Maybe he lives in a dumpster!" added Jessica Reed, sixteen, blonde and cruel.
Their words struck harder than fists.
Elian clutched the straps of his battered old backpack — faded blue, one strap hanging by threads — and moved quickly toward the school building, shoulders hunched like he could make himself disappear.
But there was no escape.
As he climbed the steps, someone stuck out a foot.
Elian tripped. His body slammed against the cold cement, knees scraping open. His books spilled everywhere — crumpled notebooks, a broken pen, a worn-out paperback of "The Little Prince" — all tumbling down the steps like shattered dreams.
Damian laughed so hard he clutched his stomach.
Even the teachers nearby barely glanced up.
One of them, Mr. Hargrove, fifty years old, balding with a beer belly straining against his belt, simply muttered, "Get yourself together, Carter," before walking away with a cup of coffee.
Humiliation burned Elian's skin. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs.
He knelt there, trembling, picking up his scattered belongings as more students passed by, stepping over him like he was garbage.
"Why are you even here?" muttered a boy from the chess club. "No future for you anyway."
Another girl sneered, "Even the janitor is more respected than you."
Hot tears pricked Elian's eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
He stuffed everything back into his bag, ignoring the blood trickling from his scraped palms.
Finally, he stumbled inside the classroom, where the real torture continued.
He sat at the back — always at the back — near the window where the glass was cracked and the air smelled of dampness.
Nobody sat near him.
They said he brought bad luck.
They said anyone who befriended him would fail their exams or get dumped.
Elian knew it was superstition.
But it didn't matter.
Truth meant nothing here. Only whispers did.
The teacher, Ms. Langford, thirty-four, sharp-faced and sharp-tongued, wearing a stiff gray skirt suit, barely acknowledged his presence.
"Late again, Carter?" she said coldly. "Figures."
The class snickered.
At lunch, Elian sat alone at the corner table, chewing slowly through a stale sandwich he had made from leftovers.
Across the room, groups laughed and shouted, trading candy, stealing bites of each other's fries, showing off new phones, planning weekend parties.
"Hey Carter, want some soup?" someone shouted.
He looked up, hopeful for a moment.
A plastic bowl came flying at him, splattering oily broth all over his face.
The room roared with laughter again.
Elian wiped his face silently, the soup dripping down his chin, pooling in his lap.
His stomach clenched — not from hunger this time, but from shame so sharp it felt like knives twisting inside.
Somewhere deep inside him, something whispered:
"One day... they'll all regret it."
But for now, there was only silence.
Only pain.
Only the endless ache of being nobody.
He finished his sandwich mechanically, staring down at the cracked table.
Dreams were for people who mattered.
Not for people like him.
Outside, the clouds finally broke open, and the rain poured down — as if the heavens themselves mourned for him.
And Elian Carter, seventeen years old, forgotten and bruised, walked home alone under the storm, each raindrop a needle against his skin, each step heavier than the last — carrying a secret that even he didn't know yet:
The world he hated would one day bow at his feet.
But not yet.
Not today.
Today, he was just the boy no one wanted.
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