Earlier that day, B.T Public | Adam’s POV

  I was at my locker, swapping out books, when I noticed him.

  Just standing there.

  Hands jammed into his pockets, eyes flicking between me and the ground.

  A Senior. I knew his face, but not his name.

  He didn’t seem threatening. Nervous, if anything. So I didn’t immediately blow him off.

  “I... uh… Adam Schwartz,” he started. “I’ve had a crush on you since last year... I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I really like you. Would you... consider dating me?”

  His voice was shaking, but his eyes were hopeful. Sincere.

  For a second, I froze. Caught off guard.

  “I... uhh...” I fumbled for words.

  “That’s... unexpected. I mean, I appreciate it, man. Really. But I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I’m dealing with some things. I’m sorry.”

  I thought that would be the end of it.

  I thought he’d take the hint.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he stepped in too close, and wrapped his arms around me.

  Not a casual hug. Not a shoulder pat. A tight hug.

  Too tight.

  Too fast.

  Too much.

  My chest locked up.

  Everything went sideways.

  His voice: “I just really want us to be friends. I hope you change your mind…” was drowned out by the roaring in my head.

  My pulse slammed in my ears like a warning siren.

  It wasn’t a hug anymore.

  It was a trap.

  The hallway faded.

  The air thickened.

  My body froze, but inside, I was spiraling.

  ‘No. Not again.’

  The pressure of his arms morphed into her grip.

  The words turned to poison.

  Every alarm in my body screamed.

  I panicked.

  I shoved him off.

  Hard.

  He stumbled, eyes wide. Shocked.

  I didn’t wait to see his reaction.

  I ran.

  My legs carried me down the hall, through the door, down the stairs, until I reached the only place in this building where no one ever goes.

  The stairwell near the basement.

  I collapsed in the corner, knees pulled to my chest, trying to breathe… trying to remember how.

  But the air wasn’t coming.

  Everything blurred again.

  Flashback (Trigger: Violence)

  Her nails dug into my arms like hooks as she pulled me close. That syrupy perfume clogged my lungs, made everything thick and sick.

  “Don’t struggle, kitty. It’s no use.”

  Her voice dripped over me, soft and cruel, sinking into my bones.

  She didn’t need to yell.

  She already owned the moment.

  My limbs wouldn’t move. My heart raced so hard it hurt. But I was frozen.

  “Just hold still,” she whispered. “I’ll be kind if you behave…”

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  Now

  I gasped. But the air felt wrong.

  My skin crawled. My muscles locked up.

  I pressed myself into the wall, desperate for something… anything real.

  My fingertips dug into my jeans, nails biting through fabric and skin.

  The world split apart: half memory, half present.

  And I was losing.

  “Such a good boy.”

  I felt sick.

  Filthy.

  Trapped.

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  The words were barely more than a breath. Pathetic.

  But it was all I had.

  My ribs ached from trying to pull in air.

  My hands convulsed, fingers curling like they wanted to escape my body.

  I clenched my eyes shut until sparks burst behind my eyelids.

  My body screamed.

  The smell of her breath and perfume clung to me like oil.

  I could feel the scratch of carpet against my knees, her voice wrapping around me like a noose.

  ‘I’m not there. I’m not trapped.’

  But it didn’t matter.

  My body remembered.

  Flashback

  “You’re mine.”

  Everything in me shut down.

  I went still, obedient, because that’s what I’d been taught.

  Stay quiet.

  Don’t fight.

  Don’t make it worse.

  My skin burned with phantom heat.

  Her touch seared into me like a brand.

  Now

  My teeth clenched so tight my jaw popped.

  I tasted blood on my tongue.

  Still, I didn’t dare open my eyes.

  Couldn’t risk seeing her.

  The world tilted.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t move.

  Just those hands, those words, echoing in my skull like a curse I couldn’t unlearn.

  “Go away,” I whispered.

  But she didn’t have to be here to rip me apart.

  That’s the worst part.

  She could still reduce me.

  Without laying a finger on me.

  And then the thought hit me, cold and vile:

  ‘She still owns me.’

  The weight in my chest crushed down.

  I was drowning.

  Somewhere, a thread of instinct surfaced. A rhythm. A breath.

  ‘Inhale. One, two, three... Exhale. One, two, three…’

  Again.

  Again.

  Slowly, the static began to thin.

  The floor under my hand came into focus: cold, rough, real.

  I slammed my fist against it.

  Once.

  Hard.

  The sting cut through the fog.

  I pressed my palm flat against the concrete, letting the chill bleed into me.

  “I’m not there.”

  It came out rough, hoarse… but it hurt in the right way.

  “I’m here.”

  The stairwell sharpened into clarity, detail by detail.

  My heartbeat slowed… still fast, but not unbearable.

  I leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, not to escape, but to stay.

  The rhythm flickered in my brain.

  Da-dum.

  Da-dum.

  Da-dum.

  I tapped it against my thigh, fingers trembling but steady enough to keep the beat.

  It was a song.

  Our song.

  Something we’d written.

  And then…

  Nickie.

  Her voice in my head:

  “Move over, Bass Boy. You’re dragging.”

  That teasing grin. The way she looked at me like I was worth knowing.

  Not a burden. Not broken.

  ‘She’s gonna kick my ass if I’m late to practice’

  My body still trembled, sweat running down my temple. But I could breathe again.

  The panic didn’t win.

  Not this time.

  I straightened, gripping the railing, letting the solid weight of it anchor me.

  Then I whispered, steady this time:

  “You don’t own me.”