#highschool bully

You sit alone at the edge of the cafeteria, hidden behind the fortress of your laptop screen and a wall of untouched fruit cups. The noise around you doesn’t register—voices bounce, shoes squeak, laughter surges in waves—but you’re too busy organizing your notes for the third time today.

And then he walks by. Atlas Crowe. Of course his name is ridiculous. So is the way people orbit him like planets caught in his gravitational pull. Varsity captain, head of student council, the boy they built statues of in the hallway with yearbook spreads and committee photos.

You barely exist in his world. Or so you thought.

“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning over your chemistry homework like he belongs there. “You’re the smart one, right? Help me out.”

It’s innocent—too innocent. But then he starts sitting with you. Every. Day. Abandons his throne in the center of popularity to share vending machine meals and Google Docs. People start whispering. You start second-guessing every glance, every compliment.

“You know,” Atlas says one night while you tutor him, voice low and too close, “you’re kind of mesmerizing when you explain quantum theory. Like you’re speaking a foreign language, only I want to learn.”

You freeze. His hands are too clean for this. His face is too pretty. His locker is filled with notes and candy, and here he is—eyes locked onto yours like you’re the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now.

Soon, your blog gets flooded with anonymous messages quoting your writing. Someone starts following all your playlists, liking posts seconds after you publish them. You mention offhand that you’re into niche documentaries—Atlas starts referencing them in class presentations as if they're his new motto.

You overhear one of his friends complaining. “She’s weird, dude. Like, no offense, why are you into her?” Atlas smiles, soft and eerie. “Because she’s not into me,” he says. “Yet.”

And now, there’s glitter on your desk. Not the fun kind—the invasive, sticky kind that somehow spells your name on his notebook. The whole school watches as the golden boy trades stadium lights for late-night texts about your favorite books and obscure philosophers. But it’s not romantic. It’s quietly terrifying.

One day you log into your private study server and find a folder: “She Who Taught Me Devotion.” Inside are transcripts of everything you’ve ever shared—academic papers, chat logs, notes you thought were deleted.

Atlas finds you at your locker, smiling like a sinner blessed by obsession.

You hadn’t thought about Evan in months. Not since graduation, not since you walked away and swore you’d never let him get under your skin again.

He wasn’t just a bully—he was your bully. The one who pulled your chair out in class, who whispered insults just loud enough to sting. But somehow, it was never quite hate. There was something else in his eyes, something unreadable.

But you were done with him.

Tonight, you’re at a café with someone new. Jace is warm. Gentle. The kind of guy who listens when you talk and doesn’t interrupt with a smartass smirk, ready to disagree. You're halfway through laughing at his awful coffee pun when you feel it:

That stare.

His Stare.

You turn your head. And there’s Evan. Leaning against the brick wall across the street, arms crossed, mouth twisted into something between fury and disbelief.

You freeze. Jace doesn’t notice. He’s rambling on about his joke. But Evan’s eyes are locked on yours—and they burn.

Hours later, you walk home alone. It was safer that way. But you still feel watched.

Then you hear the footsteps.

Measured. Slow.

You turn the corner—and he’s there. Waiting.

“You think he’s better than me?” His voice is low, jagged.

You step back. “What are you even doing here?”

“I saw you.” He laughs under his breath. “Sitting there with him like you forgot everything. Like none of it meant anything.”

“What are you talking about? You tormented me.”

His smile drops. “You think I did that because I hated you?”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted your attention. Always did.” He steps closer. “But you’re so damn stubborn. So I pushed. I provoked. I made sure you couldn’t ignore me.”

“You’re fucking crazy, and I suggest you stay away from me unless you want a resitrianging order put on you.”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m in love. And you... You were supposed to be mine.”

The street is silent, but you feel the pressure like thunder. Because this is no longer about petty schoolyard cruelty. This is possession—twisted, desperate, and worse than you imagined.

And now, you wonder what Evan’s willing to do to remind you.

You don’t sleep that night. Every time you close your eyes, you feel him watching you from the shadows of your mind.

So the next morning, you do what any shaken person might. You go to the police.

They listen. Sort of. You walk away with a report number and the words “He hasn’t done anything yet.” The yet slithers into your stomach like a stone.

You should feel safer after that. You don’t.

Out of instinct—or paranoia—you dig.

You start with Evan’s social media. Sparse. Then the alumni page. Nothing useful.

But then you find a blog. Old. Unlisted. Posts from five years ago. Most are cryptic: scans of notebook pages, grainy photos of hallway corners, date stamps.

And then you see your name.

Not just once. Dozens of times.

There are scanned pages of high school attendance lists—your name highlighted. Photos of your locker. Your class schedule. Even snippets of conversations from years ago. Ones you barely remember.

You scroll faster, hand trembling.

Then a post dated two months ago:

“Saw her again. She still walks like she’s untouchable. I’ll remind her who looked first. Who chose her.”

You slam the laptop shut. Your brain buzzes, moving a mile a minute, as you try to think of what to do.

You drive to his house. You tell yourself it’s just to confront him. To show him you’re not afraid.

But it’s unlocked. No one answers when you call.

Inside is neat. Too neat. Walls bare, furniture minimal. Like a stage.

Then you notice the hallway. Photographs. All black and white. All of you.

Candid. Smiling. Crying. Sleeping.

And one more thing:

A corkboard—names pinned under your own. Four other girls.

Crossed out.

A noise behind you.

Evan. Quiet. Calm.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says. “But maybe it’s time.”

His smile is slow this time. Measured.

“You think you were the victim. But you were the finale.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Evan says softly.

His voice coils around you like smoke, calm—too calm.

You turn slowly, heartbeat thundering in your throat, eyes locked onto him as he steps from the shadows behind you. That smile is still there. Crooked. Controlled. Watching you like you’re prey that wandered into the trap.

The corkboard looms behind him.

Four girls. Crossed out. You’re the fifth. The only one without a red line slashed across her photo.

“You think you’re the victim,” he says, stepping forward. “But you’re special. You’ve always been different.”

You step back, a tremor in your knees. “You hurt those girls.”

“I made them mine,” he whispers. “But none of them fit. Not like you.”

You glance at the concrete floor—there are faint scuff marks, like something heavy was dragged. A chain bolts to the wall, barely visible behind a stack of boxes.

Your breath catches. “What did you do to them?”

Evan doesn’t answer. He tilts his head and studies your face like a piece of art. “You don’t scream. You don’t cry. That’s why I saved you for last.”

Fight or flight claws at your ribs.

You lunge toward the stairs. He grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” he growls, voice losing its composure. “You don’t walk away from me. Not now.”

You twist free and sprint up the stairs, but the door—locked. From the inside.

He planned this.

Trapped. In his house. In the room filled with your face.

You search wildly—kitchen knife on the counter. You grip it. He follows, steps deliberate and slow.

“I know you,” he murmurs. “Every habit. Every look. You can't leave me like they did.”

Your hand tightens around the handle. “I’m not yours.”

Evan freezes. A flicker of something unravels in his eyes—rage? Grief? Madness?

Then he rushes you.

You dodge. Slam the knife down—but it grazes his shoulder. He roars in pain, grabs your arm, forces the blade to the floor.

“You were supposed to choose me!”

The struggle is brutal. Furniture crashes, glass shatters. He’s stronger, but you’re desperate. You kick, claw, scream.

And finally—sirens.

Lights. Red and blue strobe through the windows.

Someone called. Maybe a neighbor heard.

Evan’s grip falters just enough, and you shove him back hard. He stumbles as the door bursts open.

Police flood in. Guns drawn. He doesn’t fight them.

They drag him out, snarling, eyes locked on you.

“I waited for you,” he calls as they take him. “They never understood. But you will. You will.”

The house is quiet again.

Weeks later, you find out more. The girls? Missing. Some presumed dead. Others fled and never came forward.

You testified. You moved. You started over.

But some nights, when the wind scratches at your window, you think about the corkboard. About how close you came.

And about Evan’s final words—like a promise written in blood.

“You were the finale.”

Maybe you were. But you were also the ending he never saw coming.

did my best <3

You never asked to be second. But somehow, he made it feel like a sin.

Every quiz, every essay returned with red ink and a smug smirk on his lips—always one point above yours. The teachers praise him. The halls part for him. And you? You burn in his shadow.

But what terrifies you more than the constant loss is the constant attention.

“Careful, you’re slipping,” he whispers one day, voice inches from your ear in an empty corridor. “You wouldn't want people thinking you're falling behind. Especially me.”

His fingers brush the edge of your notebook. Not to steal. Just to know. Just to memorize your handwriting so he can recognize it anywhere. He’s always watching. And not just your grades.

You see it in the way his eyes scan your schedule, the way he answers questions meant for you, the way his locker now mirrors yours—book for book, pen for pen.

You're not rivals. You're his benchmark. You're the obsession he can’t outscore.

The final exam looms, and he corners you beneath the library staircase. “I’ll let you have first place,” he says, teeth bared in something too close to a grin. “If you'll let me have you.”

And they won’t want to hang out with you when they get older because you’ve single-handedly ruined almost all of their interests with snide comments that you make.