The third-floor hallway of Oakridge High always smelled faintly of floor wax and stale cafeteria pizza during the morning rush.
I usually took the long route past the gymnasium just to avoid the bottleneck of lockers near room 304.
That particular Tuesday, however, the bell was about to ring in three minutes and I had no choice.
Marcus and his friends had claimed that specific stretch of hallway as their unofficial social hub since the start of the semester.
They weren't the kind of kids who threw punches or got sent to the principal's office for major rule violations.
Their specialty was the much quieter kind of intimidation that teachers somehow never managed to catch.
If you walked past them, you learned quickly to keep your eyes fixed straight ahead on the green double doors.
I had spent the entire weekend organizing my study binder for the upcoming midterm exams.
Every subject had its own color-coded tab, and my notes were written in neat, careful handwriting.
My backpack was heavy, stuffed with the physical evidence of how hard I was trying to fit in without drawing attention.
As I approached the water fountain, Marcus pushed himself off the metal locker door with his shoulder.
He didn't say anything at first, just watched me with that half-amused, evaluating look he gave people he found slightly pathetic.
I clutched the straps of my bag a little tighter and tried to angle my body toward the empty space beside him.
"Going somewhere important, Chloe?" he asked, his voice cutting easily through the loud chatter of the passing period.
I shook my head and kept my pace steady, hoping that a short answer would end the interaction before it started.
That was always the mistake—acting like you were confident enough to ignore them usually invited a longer test.
Marcus reached out his hand with casual slowness, hooking his index finger under the zipper pull of my front pocket.
I stopped walking because pulling away abruptly would have made me lose my balance in the middle of the crowd.
"Just let me grab my pencil case," he said, though his other hand was already reaching for the main zipper.
I told him I had already packed my things away and that I was going to be late for history class.
He ignored what I said entirely and smoothly pulled the zipper all the way around the U-shape of the bag.
The sudden friction made a sharp tearing sound as the fabric gave way, spilling the contents across the shiny floor.
It felt like time slowed down for a second as white index cards and loose notebook pages scattered in every direction.
A collective chuckle rippled through the small circle of students leaning against the lockers behind him.
My face burned with an intense, stinging heat that seemed to spread all the way down to my fingertips.
I immediately dropped to my hands and knees to gather the papers before someone else kicked them further down the hall.
Marcus stepped closer, his sneakers standing right at the edge of my personal space as I scrambled across the floor.
He bent down slightly, picking up a folded piece of lined paper that had my private thoughts scrawled across it in blue ink.
"Dear Mark," he read aloud in a slow, mocking monotone, turning his head so the boys behind him could hear every word.
The hallway around us seemed to quiet down for a fraction of a second as people turned to watch the performance.
I reached up blindly to grab the paper from his fingers, but he casually lifted his hand out of my reach.
"Give it back," I whispered, my voice sounding much smaller and weaker than I wanted it to.
"You should really keep your diary in a safer place," he replied, dropping the paper back down onto the pile of notebooks.
Someone in the background laughed out loud, a sharp, barking sound that made my stomach turn completely over.
I kept my head down, staring at the gray grout lines between the tiles while my fingers shook uncontrollably.
