The Essay That Broke Me

I stared at the page. At the first sentence I'd just written.

Why Fighting is Wrong Within School Premises

By Ash Rivera

Fighting in school is more than fists.

Sometimes it's silence.

Sometimes it's the way people look at you like you're already guilty before you speak.

Sometimes it's walking through the halls, knowing every poster of your face tells a story you didn't write.

Sometimes... the fight isn't even with another student. It's inside.

I swallowed.

Then I kept going.

Sometimes the fight is already bottled-up pain. The kind that builds up quietly, day after day, like a ticking bomb.

Sometimes the fight is having a mom who's been sick for over a year. Watching her get weaker. Watching the hospital bills pile up. Watching your little sister pretend everything's okay when you know it's not.

Sometimes the fight is having a dad who died serving this country...and realizing the country didn't serve him back. A dad whose sacrifice became nothing but a certificate we framed on the wall, like it would feed us, clothe us, or keep the nightmares away.

That the medals meant nothing when we couldn't even afford medicine or rent.

Sometimes the fight is pretending to be okay.

Sometimes the fight is studying late into the night, chasing scholarships, holding onto hope...

Only for that hope to get crushed under a rumor, a fall, a name scratched in red ink on a locker that screams "murderer."

My pen trembled in my hand. The words blurred for a second.

And now… the only hope I had…the one shot I was holding onto…this scholarship, this school, this dream…

It's slipping.

And maybe I didn't mean to fight this morning.

Maybe I was just tired of being hit over and over by life, and finally flinched back.

Maybe… the fight started long before today.

I didn't even realize I was crying until the ink began to blur.

A single tear dropped onto the page, spreading into a perfect circle over the word hope.

And I just stared at it.

Three drops now.

Like an ellipsis I hadn't meant to write.

I blinked.

Then….

A knock sounded against the side door of the snapped me out of the fog.

Mrs. Smith looked up from her desk, confused.

We weren't expecting anyone.

Then the door creaked open.

I raised my head.

I blinked twice to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

And there he was.

Dominic Vale.

In detention.

Wearing that same black leather jacket, hair ruffled, hands in his pockets and that smirk.

Mrs. Smith squinted. "Mr. Vale?"

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Guess I earned myself a spot."

No way.

Not him.

Of all the people in the world to show up in detention with me… it had to be him.

Mrs. Smith stood slowly. "I… wasn't expecting you here."

He shrugged. "I got detention this morning too. For slamming someone into a locker. Figured I should show up."

Her brows lifted as she nodded slowly. "Well… take a seat, Mr. Vale. I assume you'll be writing the same essay?"

"Sure," he muttered, walking toward the back.

But he didn't go to the far end of the room.

Nope.

He walked straight to the desk next to mine.

Pulled it out. Sat down.

Right beside me.

I could feel his presence. That same damn cologne still lingering in my brain.

I didn't look at him.

Didn't say anything.

He didn't either.

We sat there in silence, scribbling on paper like we weren't both wrapped in the tension of something bigger than detention.

Mrs. Smith went back to grading papers. Occasionally humming softly.

I tried to keep writing.

But I felt his gaze.

Not full-on staring. Just… glancing..

Then I heard him.

"Hey."

I didn't look back. I still ignored as he turned the half staring into full-on staring.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore.

I looked up.

"What are you doing here, really?" I whispered.

He didn't answer at first. Just stared at his paper like it was going to give him the words.

Then quietly:

"I guess… I didn't want you to sit here alone. Not today."

I turned to him and sighed.

"I saw your face this morning," he whispered.

My chest tightened.

"The posters," he added. "The rat. The looks. Everything."

My hand gripped my pen tighter.

"I didn't print them, Ash."

"You didn't stop them either," I said.

Then he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling like it might offer him a script.

"I don't know how to fix anything," he said.

He doesn't know how to fix anything?

Neither do I.