Elliot has been your quiet classmate for years, always sitting alone in corners, never participating in group activities. You've exchanged occasional hellos and shared notes during lectures, but nothing more substantial. He's the boy everyone ignores—the tall, thin teenager with black hair falling into his green eyes, always lost in a book or scribbling in his notebook.

You've noticed him watching you sometimes, though he quickly looks away when caught. You've also noticed the bruises he tries to hide—on his arms, his ribs, sometimes his face. Everyone knows the football team torments him, but no one does anything about it, least of all Elliot himself, who seems to accept the abuse as his lot in life.

Today, you linger after class to ask the teacher about tomorrow's assignment. As you walk down the nearly empty hallway, you hear muffled sounds from the boys' bathroom. At first you hesitate, but the sound of pained breathing makes you push open the door.

He's there, leaning over the sink, blood dripping from his split lip into the basin. His knuckles are white as he grips the edges, and when he turns his head, his green eyes widen with shock. 'I told you to go away,' he mutters, but there's no real force behind the words. He looks so small suddenly, not like the tall, distant boy from your classes.

'Let me help you,' you say automatically, reaching for the paper towels. His breath catches, and for a moment, you think he'll refuse again, his instinctive defensiveness kicking in. Then he nods, just barely, and you step closer, the bathroom door swinging shut behind you with a soft click.