︵︵ 𝓙ꪮhᥒ Ꮮꫀᥒᥒꪮᥒ . 冬

Liverpool ; 1957 ; Detention room !

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You were not remarkable enough to be memorable. That wasn’t an insult, exactly. It was simply the truth.

You moved through high school in the comfortable middle ground occupied by most people.

Your grades were acceptable when teachers were feeling generous, your friendships were steady, and your reputation was clean enough to avoid becoming the subject of hallway gossip.

You had people to sit with at lunch. People who saved you a place in class.

People who would call you late at night to complain about homework and then disappear the moment you actually needed help with it.

John, however, seemed to exist for the sole purpose of disrupting ordinary things.

He was impossible to miss, even when he wasn’t trying to be noticed.

He had a talent for turning up late, talking over teachers, and treating school rules as mild suggestions intended for other people.

His uniform was never quite correct. His tie was perpetually loose, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his shoes scuffed from places he probably wasn’t supposed to be.

Everyone knew him.

Teachers knew him because he argued with them. Students knew him because he made fun of them.

The younger students knew him because they moved out of his way in the corridors.

You knew him because you shared History. Until recently, he had mostly left you alone.

That had been a mutual arrangement you appreciated. You did not speak to John, and John did not speak to you. It was peaceful. Sustainable.

Then, for reasons you couldn’t understand, he began paying attention.

At first, it was only small things.

A muttered comment when you answered a question incorrectly. A lazy grin whenever you walked past his desk. The occasional tap of his pen against the back of your chair.

Just enough to make you aware of him so you tried not to react.

By the time History started that afternoon, you had already endured three comments, two snide remarks, and one deliberate shoulder-check in the corridor.

You had ignored all of it with the stubborn determination of someone who refused to give a bully the satisfaction of seeing them upset.

The teacher began writing a list of dates on the board, speaking about political alliances and long-dead monarchs with the measured exhaustion of someone who had explained the same chapter too many times.

You copied the notes. For almost four minutes, everything was quiet. Then something struck the side of your head. You looked down.

A tightly rolled piece of paper had landed beside your notebook. Slowly, you turned around.

John was leaning back in his chair, wearing an expression of exaggerated innocence. His mouth twitched when your eyes met.

“What?” he mouthed.

A second paper ball bounced off your shoulder. Then a third hit the corner of your desk.

You could hear him trying not to laugh behind you. It was a low, irritating sound, barely restrained and entirely intentional.

You picked up the first paper and unfolded it. There was a badly drawn caricature of you, complete with a frown so dramatic it looked painful.

You crumpled it again and placed it beneath your textbook. The teacher glanced over his shoulder.

“John.”

The room settled. John sat up straighter, his face blank.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stop interrupting.”

John nodded with great solemnity, then another paper ball struck your ear.

Your fingers tightened around your pen.

You stared at the board and attempted to focus on the lesson. You wrote down the next date. Then the next. Your handwriting grew sharper with every word.

Behind you, John shifted in his chair, you heard the faint crinkle of paper.

Your patience finally broke.

You reached for your eraser, turned, and threw it.

You hadn’t meant to hit him in the face. That was what you told yourself, anyway. The eraser struck him directly on the cheek just as the teacher turned from the board.

Silence fell across the classroom. John blinked. The eraser dropped into his lap.

Your arm remained half-raised, the evidence of your crime painfully clear.

The teacher looked from you to John.

“Would either of you like to explain what is happening?”

Neither of you answered. John slowly lifted the eraser between two fingers.

“They started it.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“You threw paper at me for the entire lesson.”

“And you assaulted me with stationery.”

“You deserved it.”

A few people laughed.

The teacher did not.

By the end of the period, both of you had been assigned detention. The teacher delivered the punishment with the weary certainty of someone who had already decided neither of you was mature enough to be trusted with freedom.

Now, you sat in an empty classroom after school, staring at the clock.

The room was washed in pale evening light. Dust floated through the beams near the windows. Somewhere down the corridor, a cleaner pushed a cart past the door, the wheels squeaking with every turn.

John sat two desks away.

For the first five minutes, he said nothing. Then he leaned back in his chair.

“So,” he said, “do you make a habit of throwing things at people?”

You kept your eyes on the worksheet in front of you.