Alex walked into the locker room, his steps slow and heavy. His muscles ached, his fists were still clenched from the adrenaline, and sweat clung to his skin like a second layer. He didn't bother lingering. Silently, he stripped off his bloodstained clothes, changed into a clean hoodie and jeans, then walked out of the arena without looking back. The roar of the crowd faded behind him, replaced by the steady hum of the night air and the sound of his own footsteps echoing on the pavement.
Each step toward his motorcycle felt like a release of tension, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The fight was over. For now.
He hopped onto his ride and revved the engine. The low growl of the machine beneath him soothed the chaos in his mind. He drove through the silent streets, his body relaxing slightly as the wind kissed his face. The night was still and cool, and for a moment, he felt at peace—empty, but calm.
Alex stopped at a small convenience store on the corner of a quiet street. He walked inside, his hood still up, and grabbed a few packets of instant noodles, a bottle of water, and some bread. The clerk didn't ask questions, just rang him up with a nod. He paid in silence, slipped the items into a plastic bag, and walked back outside.
But as he approached his bike, his moment of calm shattered.
Leaning casually against his motorcycle were Jason and his gang—four boys, all dressed in street clothes, with smug grins and eyes full of mischief and malice. When they saw him, their expressions lit up with cruel excitement, like predators spotting prey.
"Well, well, look who we have here," one of them sneered. "Pretty boy himself."
Alex didn't respond. His face remained expressionless as his eyes scanned the group. He shifted the bag of groceries in one hand and tried to move past them, hoping—foolishly—that they would let it go.
But they didn't.
"Hey, hold up," the same boy said, stepping into his path. "We were sent here to give you a message. Jason says hi—and to watch your back."
Before Alex could react, a fist slammed into his side. Another blow followed, landing square on his jaw. The bag of groceries fell to the ground, scattering noodles and bread across the pavement. He staggered back, his vision momentarily blurring, but he didn't fight back.
He didn't even raise his fists.
They kept hitting him—punches to the ribs, kicks to his stomach, a blow to the back of his head that sent him to the ground. He curled slightly but didn't resist. He was tired. Not just physically, but deeply, utterly tired. All he had wanted was a quiet night, a warm meal, some silence. And instead, this.
"Pathetic," one of the boys muttered, spitting near him. "Let's go. He's not even worth it."
They walked away, laughing and nudging each other, their footsteps echoing into the night.
Alex lay there for a while, face pressed against the cold pavement, the rain from earlier making it damp. His body throbbed with pain, and his mind swirled with emptiness. After several minutes, he pushed himself up with a groan, gathered the groceries—most of which were now torn or soaked—and limped home in silence.
The next morning, he appeared in class, his face bruised and swollen, a cut on his lower lip and dark purple marks forming along his cheek and neck. His posture was stiff, and he moved like every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
When June saw him, she shot up from her seat.
"Alex!" she shouted, rushing over to him. "Oh my God, what happened to you?! Who did this?"
He sat down slowly, dropping his bag on the floor beside his desk.
"I'm okay, June," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry?!" she repeated, her voice rising. "Look at you! You're all bruised—you didn't even put medicine on this, did you?"
She was right. He hadn't. He had gone home, taken a shower, eaten some slightly crushed noodles, and collapsed into bed without a second thought. When he woke up, his entire body ached. Every breath, every step, was pain.
Without another word, June grabbed his arm and pulled him up from his chair, ignoring his groans of protest.
"Come with me," she said, her tone uncharacteristically serious.
"Where are we going?" he asked wearily.
"The rooftop," she answered.
Once they reached the quiet rooftop, June guided him to a bench and pushed him down gently.
"Sit here. Don't move."
He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. The sun was warm on his face, but it didn't dull the pain in his ribs.
June disappeared for a moment, then returned a few minutes later carrying a small first-aid kit and a bag of ice she'd somehow managed to talk out of the school nurse. She knelt beside him and began pulling supplies out of the kit with practiced hands.
"Take off your hoodie," she said softly.
Alex hesitated. "It's fine. Really."
"Alex."
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She wasn't angry. She looked… hurt. Worried. Her brown eyes were filled with a gentle concern that pierced straight through his defenses.
With a sigh, he slowly peeled off his hoodie, revealing a tight white shirt underneath, stained with a bit of dried blood and torn at the sleeve. June's face twisted in distress at the sight.
"You let them do this to you…" she whispered, barely holding back tears. "Why?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because he didn't know either.
She opened a bottle of antiseptic and gently dabbed a cotton pad against the cut on his cheek. He winced.
"Sorry," she said quickly, "I'll be gentle."
June worked carefully, cleaning each wound, applying ointment to the bruises, and taping gauze where needed. Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch was tender, like she was trying to erase the pain, one small gesture at a time. Every now and then, she glanced at his face to check if he was okay, and every time, his expression remained stoic, but his eyes softened just a little.
She held an ice pack against his swollen jaw and frowned.
"You need to stop getting hurt like this," she said quietly. "I'm not going to keep patching you up forever."
Alex looked at her, his voice low. "You don't have to."
"I know," she whispered. "But I want to."
A silence settled between them, broken only by the wind brushing over the rooftop and the distant sounds of students laughing below.
June finally sat down beside him, tucking her knees to her chest. "You never tell me anything, Alex. You always bottle everything up. Why?"
"Because it's easier," he replied. "Because I don't know how to explain what's going on in my head."
"You don't have to explain," she said softly. "Just… don't push me away. I'm here, okay? Even if you don't want me to be."
He didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, careful not to touch the injured spots. And for the first time in a long while, Alex didn't feel entirely alone.
Maybe he was still broken, still haunted by things he never spoke about—but in that moment, as the sun warmed their skin and the silence between them became comforting instead of empty, he allowed himself to feel something he hadn't in years.
Safe.