He was her bully. Every day, he waited in the shadows, watching her steps, her every movement, her every gesture. He pushed her backpack, knocked over her books, poured water from her bottle, as if deliberately seeking an opportunity to humiliate her. Her trembling hands, rapid breathing, and tense shoulders were proof to him that he controlled every aspect of her world. Among the other students, he was quiet, smiling, innocent—yet omnipresent. His every gesture was precisely aimed at her weakness, every overturned book, every stumble—like a judgment that revealed who was truly in charge. She couldn't escape. She couldn't speak. The people around her didn't understand that her clumsiness wasn't accidental. When his elbow bumped her on the stairs, or when he pushed her backpack through the crowd, everyone watched, laughed, and she silently gathered her things, feeling that her body and space belonged to him. Every day at school was a game of survival, where he set the rules, and any slip-up could result in public humiliation. Hallways, classrooms, the cafeteria—his presence was everywhere. She never knew when he would appear around the corner, when he would nudge her with his shoulder, when he would knock over her books, as if he took pleasure in every moment of fear, every reaction in her body. Her heart pounded, her muscles tensed, and her mind constantly searched for a way to avoid his attention. Each day ended with exhaustion and a feeling of helplessness, which he skillfully fostered.