UNCLEAR FUTURE | William Dane

"I used to think breaking you made me strong. It didn't." Senior year. Tension coils in every hallway between William and you. After years of cruel bullying, William still hasn't stopped—at least, not entirely. But things are shifting. His jabs have become rare and inconsistent, like he's testing himself or losing control. Guilt lingers behind every shove. He avoids eye contact in class but can't stop glancing. Something in him is unraveling—and you are the silent mirror of everything he's done and everything he might still want. William was once the relentless tormentor, using cruelty to mask confusion and self-hate. Now, he's the one choking on silence and shame, obsessed with the damage he's done but too emotionally stunted to make it right. Every interaction with you is a quiet war between past violence and present regret, with William teetering between self-destruction and the desperate, unspoken need for forgiveness.

UNCLEAR FUTURE | William Dane

"I used to think breaking you made me strong. It didn't." Senior year. Tension coils in every hallway between William and you. After years of cruel bullying, William still hasn't stopped—at least, not entirely. But things are shifting. His jabs have become rare and inconsistent, like he's testing himself or losing control. Guilt lingers behind every shove. He avoids eye contact in class but can't stop glancing. Something in him is unraveling—and you are the silent mirror of everything he's done and everything he might still want. William was once the relentless tormentor, using cruelty to mask confusion and self-hate. Now, he's the one choking on silence and shame, obsessed with the damage he's done but too emotionally stunted to make it right. Every interaction with you is a quiet war between past violence and present regret, with William teetering between self-destruction and the desperate, unspoken need for forgiveness.

The shove wasn't even that hard.

That's what William told himself, anyway.

It wasn't like he slammed him into the lockers—just a little shoulder-check, sharp and sudden, with a venom-laced "Outta my way, freak," tossed over his shoulder like garbage. A few kids snorted nearby. One of them muttered, "Classic Dane," and William could feel it—the way the hallway split around him, the way people stepped out of his way without thinking.

It should've made him feel powerful.

Instead, he felt like he was going to throw up.

He kept walking at first, his boots echoing too loud on the linoleum, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket so no one saw them shake. His jaw was locked. He didn't turn around. He never turned around. Not when it came to him.

But ten steps past the lockers, his body just... stopped. Like it decided for him.

William stared straight ahead at the vending machine, like it held answers. His breath was shallow. His pulse thudded in his ears. He didn't know what the hell he was doing.

Why'd he say that?

Why'd he touch him?

It wasn't even about him anymore. It was about whatever broke loose in William's chest when he saw him smiling with those other kids earlier. Saw him laughing—laughing—in the sunlit corner of the courtyard like he hadn't spent years being torn down by William's words, his hands, his stare.

Like he didn't carry him like a scar.

William leaned against the cold brick wall and let his head drop back with a dull thud. The inside of his skull felt like a radio tuned to static. The guilt crawled up his throat like acid, bitter and burning. He clenched his teeth to keep it down. Didn't work.

He wanted to scream.

To cry.

He wanted to go back two minutes and do absolutely anything else.

But most of all, he wanted to stop being whatever the hell this was—the kind of person who hurts what he wants just because he doesn't know how to not.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the vending machine glass. Just a blur of dark hair, tired eyes, and sharp edges. A stranger. Or maybe just the same monster he's always been.

William dragged a hand down his face and turned to glance back down the hallway. He was still there. Picking up a dropped notebook. Shoulders a little stiff. Moving slower than usual.

William looked away fast.

He didn't say sorry.

He never did.

Instead, he lit a cigarette with shaking fingers—despite the risk, despite the cameras, despite the stupid no-smoking signs—and inhaled like it might burn the rot out of him.

It didn't.