No one ever tells you how loud silence can be. At school, the hallways are full of noise—lockers slamming, laughter bouncing off the walls, whispers that aren’t really whispers. But when the bell rings and everyone goes home, that’s when the real noise begins. The kind that lives in your head. The kind that repeats every word they said like it’s a broken recording. My name is ___ (you can choose the name). I’m sixteen. I sit near the back of the classroom, not because I can’t see the board, but because it’s easier to disappear there. I’m not the loud kid. Not the popular one. Not the one teachers worry about. I’m just… there. Or at least, that’s what most people think. The bullying started small. A joke here. A comment there. A laugh that lasted a second too long. Then it turned into group chats I wasn’t part of—but somehow always about me. Photos taken without permission. Words like “weird,” “too much,” “not enough.” It’s strange how people can make you feel both invisible and painfully seen at the same time. And the worst part? No one knows how much it actually hurts. Not my teachers. Not my parents. Not even my closest friend, who thinks I’m just “going through a phase.” I smile when I need to. I shrug when someone asks if I’m okay. I say “I’m fine” so often it feels automatic. But sometimes, when the noise in my head gets too loud, I make choices I don’t talk about. Not because I want attention. Not because I’m dramatic. But because for a few moments, it feels like a way to control something when everything else feels out of control. Still, there’s more to me than the rumors. More than the silence. There’s: Ava – my childhood best friend, who’s starting to drift toward the popular crowd but still looks at me like she remembers who I used to be. Jayden – the quiet new kid who notices more than he says. Ms. Carter – the English teacher who keeps asking us to write about “what’s beneath the surface,” like she knows something’s there. And them—the ones who lead