By middle school, the teasing sharpened. Nobody yelled across hallways anymore. Instead, students exchanged glances that sliced sharper than insults. They slid their backpacks an inch closer to friends, as if the space between us could protect them from contamination. They muted their laughter when I walked by, then erupted the moment I passed. In the cafeteria, I pretended to study until a supervisor forced me to eat. I hid in the library until they closed for lunch, then behind the vending machine near the gym. The hum of the machine’s compressor became my soundtrack. I learned to eat quietly so nobody would hear me.
At home, my mother scrubbed her hands until her knuckles cracked. She always asked, “Did you have a good day?” I always lied. “It was fine.” She let out a tired breath, like she was exhaling a week’s worth of fear, and she smiled. I carried those lies like stones in my pockets.
Something changed in tenth grade. It began with numbers on a page. I discovered the pleasure of solving equations that did not judge me. Math cared only for the right answer. Physics did not whisper behind my back. I stayed after class so frequently that the janitors learned my name.