The afternoon sun at Upperhill Academy brought a harsh, unforgiving clarity that made Joel feel like a specimen under a microscope. When James finally dismissed him with a flick of his wrist and a sharp, "Don't be late tomorrow morning, Assistant," Joel had practically stumbled out of the Student Council office.
His hip was still slick with the residue of the ointment James had applied with such agonizing deliberation. Every step he took was a reminder of the President's fingers against his skin, a sensation that felt like a brand. He just wanted to reach the locker room, grab his remaining books, and vanish into the Toronto transit system before the world could swallow him whole.
But the hallway was no longer the neutral ground it used to be.
The news had metastasized. It wasn't just a video of a kiss anymore; it was the "Great Upperhill Heist." As Joel rounded the corner toward the main foyer, the air seemed to thicken with the weight of a hundred gazes.
"There he is," a voice hissed, slicing through the ambient hum of the school. "The light-fingered lover."
Joel kept his head down, his dark hair a messy curtain, but he couldn't block out the sound. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his messenger bag clutched against his chest like a shield.
"Hey, Joel! Did you steal the President's heart, or just his silver watch?" a junior shouted, leaning against a locker. A roar of laughter followed, sharp and jagged like broken glass.
"I heard he has a whole collection of stolen things," a girl whispered loudly as Joel passed her group. "He probably steals the girls' hair ties just to feel close to someone. He's such a freak. I don't blame him, look at his looks, he's just a boy version of us."
"Not just a freak—an active one," another voice added. "Imagine being so obsessed with James Thorn that you'd frame yourself just for a few minutes in his office. It's pathetic. It's actually disgusting and immoral."
Joel's breath hitched. He tried to speed up, but his injured hip gave a sickening throb, forcing him to limp. The funny walk returned, and with it, a new wave of mockery.
"Look at him! He's even walking like a thief," a boy sneered, stepping out to block Joel's path. "What's the matter, Princess? Is the guilt weighing you down? Or is that just the weight of the watch in your pocket? Did you take it for sniffing on it later?"
"I... I didn't take it," Joel whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes darting frantically for an exit.
"Oh, he talks!" the boy mocked, leaning down to Joel's height. "He didn't take it, guys! The watch just magically teleported into his bag! It was a miracle! A freak, thieving miracle! Do you believe that?"
The circle of students began to close in, a wall of expensive blazers and cruel, youthful faces. Joel felt the walls of the hallway shrinking. The Invisible Joel was truly dead, replaced by this caricature of a villain. He could see their phones out again, recording his distress, waiting for the moment he would break so they could upload the sequel to the morning's viral hit.
"He's crying! Look, the thief is crying!" a girl squealed, pointing at the first tear that escaped Joel's lashes and tracked a path through the dust on his cheek.
"Are those 'I'm sorry' tears, or 'I'm caught' tears? Or tears of joy after kissing the king of Upperhill?"
"Probably 'I want James to notice me' tears," someone laughed. "He's so desperate. He's like a dog begging for scraps."
The insults began to blur into a cacophony of hate. Sissy. Thief. Disgusting. Freak. Charity case. Every word was a physical blow. Joel felt the heat in his chest rising, a suffocating pressure that made his lungs feel like they were collapsing. He looked at the faces around him—people he had sat in class with for two years—and saw nothing but a terrifying, unified joy in his suffering.
The tears weren't just falling now; they were a torrent. His vision blurred until the hallway was just a smear of beige and blue. He let out a broken, jagged sob, his hand flying to his mouth to try and catch the sound, but it was too late.
"I... I'm not... I didn't..." he tried to gasp out, but the laughter only grew louder, drowning out his weak defense.
"He's actually breaking down! Get this on camera! Don't miss it!"
"Hey, Joel! Why don't you go cry to your 'savior' Frank? Oh wait, even Frank can't help a thief!"
Joel couldn't take another second. He didn't care about his limp; he didn't care about the pain in his side. He shoved past the boy blocking his way, ignoring the hands that tried to trip him and the voices that called his name like a curse.
He ran. He ran past the trophy cases, past the library where he used to hide, past the classrooms where he had tried so hard to be perfect. The laughter followed him all the way to the exit, a haunting, rhythmic echo that felt like it was carved into the very stone of Upperhill Academy.
He burst through the front doors, the cold Toronto wind hitting his wet face like a slap. He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the campus, collapsing against a brick wall, his chest heaving, his sobs finally coming out in loud, violent bursts that shook his entire frame.
He was ruined. In one single day, James Thorn had taken his heart, his reputation, and his safety, and replaced them with a silk handkerchief and a permanent mark of shame.
And the worst part—the part that made Joel cry until his throat was raw—was that even now, even after the laughter and the lies, he could still feel the warmth of James's fingers on his skin, and he hated himself for wanting to feel it again.