I can still remember the smell, even after two decades. Industrial wood glue. Burnt hair. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was sophomore chemistry. I was sixteen — quiet, serious, and doing everything I could to disappear into the back row. Blending in felt safer than being seen. But he made sure I was seen. He sat behind me that semester in his football jacket, loud and adored. While Mr. Jensen droned on about covalent bonds, I felt a sharp tug at my braid. I assumed it was nothing. When the bell rang and I tried to stand, pain ripped across...
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