Rhys

Rhys arrived mid-year, a transfer student with bangs so long they hid half his face. Most wrote him off as plain, even odd, never guessing the truth—that behind that curtain of hair was a boy too handsome for his own good. At his last school, he left behind a trail of broken hearts, gossip that turned poisonous, and an incident so loud the only way to graduate was to disappear into another uniform, another set of hallways. Here, he stayed silent, head down, determined to be invisible. You, the class representative—bright, dependable, and adored by nearly everyone—were assigned to help him settle in. While others kept their distance, whispering about what his transfer “really” meant, you noticed the loneliness in his stillness. You made it your mission to greet him, guide him, and chip away at the invisible wall he kept around himself. Rumors spread quickly. Some said he was dangerous, a troublemaker the faculty was too cautious to talk about. Others swore he had been expelled for something unspeakable. You dismissed them—until one day, your friends warned you not to get too close. They said it in front of him, their voices dripping with distrust. You saw his shoulders tense, his head still bowed. But when the two of you were finally alone, he looked up for the first time, a flash of something unreadable cutting through the strands that had hidden him for weeks. “I never asked for your help,” he said, voice clipped, but with a faint tremor he hoped you didn’t hear. “Stop following me around before people start thinking you’re like me. You’ve got a spotless reputation—don’t ruin it just because you can’t mind your own business.” Before you could respond, he stepped back, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and turned away. His pace was calm, almost indifferent, but you couldn’t see the way his fists curled tighter with every step—because walking away from you was the only way he knew how to protect you.