Your Bully Who Can't Stop Thinking About You

It started two years ago, right after you came out.

Before that, Tyler Morrison didn't even know your name. You were invisible—just another face in the hallways of this expensive private school where everyone either had money or a scholarship. You had the scholarship. Tyler had the money.

Then you came out sophomore year. Brave, honest, posted it on Instagram with shaking hands. Most people were cool about it. Some weren't. Tyler... Tyler made it his personal mission to destroy you.

First incident: Cafeteria, three weeks after you came out. You were sitting alone, eating, trying to be invisible again. Tyler walked past with his friends—Jake, Brett, Connor, all letterman jackets and ego. Tyler "accidentally" bumped your table. Hard. Your lunch went everywhere. Milk soaked your lap.

"Oh shit," Tyler said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Sorry, didn't see you there." Then, quieter, just for you: "Faggot."

His friends laughed. Half the cafeteria watched. No one helped you clean up.

It got worse.

Hallways became a minefield. Tyler would shoulder-check you into lockers—hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to get caught. His friends would surround you sometimes, boxing you in, calling you slurs while Tyler watched with that cold smile.

"Where you going, queer?"

"What's wrong? Gonna cry?"

"Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

They'd laugh. Tyler would laugh the loudest. Then walk away like nothing happened.

Gym class was hell. Tyler's the wrestling captain—strong, fast, knows exactly how to hurt without leaving marks. During basketball, he'd elbow you in the ribs on every play. During dodgeball, he'd aim for your face. Once, in the locker room, he shoved you so hard you slipped on wet tile, hit your head. Saw stars.

"Whoops. You should be more careful," Tyler said, standing over you, that perfect face showing zero remorse. His friends snickered behind him.

Coach didn't see. Coach never saw.

Social media was worse. Burner accounts tagging you in posts: memes with slurs, Photoshopped pictures making fun of you, polls asking "who's the biggest f#g in school" with your name winning. You reported them. They came back with different usernames.

You knew it was Tyler's friends. Maybe Tyler himself. Couldn't prove it.

Last month, the worst one yet: Tyler saw you talking to a guy after class. Just talking—homework, nothing else. Tyler's face went dark. That night, someone spray-painted a slur on your locker. Huge, red letters: FAGGOT. Everyone saw it next morning before janitors could clean it.

You knew it was him. The way he smirked when you walked up to your locker, eyes red from crying in your car. The way he leaned against the wall with his friends, arms crossed, watching your reaction.

"That's fucked up," he'd said, loud enough for teachers to hear. Playing concerned. "Who would do that?"

But his eyes said: Me. I did. What are you going to do about it?

Two years of this. Two years of bruises, insults, isolation, fear. Two years of dreading school, of taking the long way to avoid hallways where Tyler might be, of eating lunch in bathroom stalls, of wanting to disappear.

Two years of Tyler Morrison making your life hell for the crime of existing.

And today—today was supposed to be like every other day.

Last period ended. Most students left—practice, clubs, escaping before traffic got bad. You stayed late at your locker, waiting for the halls to clear. Safer that way. Less chance of running into him.

You were wrong.

Heavy footsteps. That confident, aggressive walk you'd recognize anywhere. Your stomach dropped. You didn't turn around, kept grabbing books, hands shaking slightly. Maybe he'd just shove you and leave. Maybe—

"Yo."

Tyler's voice. Close. Too close.

You turned, already preparing for it—the shove, the insult, the laughter. Except—

He's alone. No Jake recording for Snapchat. No Brett and Connor flanking him like bodyguards. Just Tyler, in his letterman jacket and expensive joggers, hair perfectly styled despite wrestling practice, jaw clenched in that way that means trouble.

Before you can speak, he moves—fast, those wrestling reflexes—slams you back against the lockers. Metal crashes loud, echoing in the empty hallway. His hand by your head, fist twisted in your shirt, knuckles pressed against your chest.

This is familiar. You've been here before. This part you know. He'll call you something, shove you harder, walk away. Two years of this. You know the script.

Except—

He's not saying anything. Just staring. Breathing hard like he just ran a mile, even though practice ended an hour ago. His chest rises and falls under that jacket. You can smell his cologne—expensive, clean—mixed with sweat and something minty like gum.

Those light eyes, usually ice-cold when they look at you, are different right now. Intense. Confused. Dark.

The silence stretches. Your heart's pounding so hard you think he can probably hear it. After two years of his abuse, having Tyler Morrison this close, this quiet, is somehow more terrifying than the shoving and slurs.

"Why do you have to make everything so fucking complicated?"

It comes out rough, raw. Not his usual mocking tone. This sounds real. Frustrated. Like he's asking a question he's been holding in for months.

His grip on your shirt tightens, pulling you slightly forward. His other hand's still on the locker by your head—not hitting, just there, trapping you. He's closer than he's ever been. Closer than necessary. Close enough that you can see his jaw working, grinding his teeth, see the small scar on his chin from some wrestling match.

His eyes drop. To your mouth. Just for a second—but you catch it. Then snap back up like he's been caught stealing.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that in class."

What? You barely look at him. You've spent two years trying NOT to look at him, trying to be invisible, trying to survive—

"I can feel it," he continues, voice getting rougher, more desperate. "Every day. English. You stare. Why?"

That's not true. If anyone stares, it's— But you can't say that. Can't accuse Tyler Morrison of anything. Not after two years of learning what happens when you fight back.

His face is getting closer. Not in a threatening way. In a... different way. His breathing's heavier. His eyes keep dropping to your lips and jerking back up like he's fighting himself.

"You think you're so fucking brave." His voice drops to almost a whisper. "Coming out. Being proud. Walking around like— Making the rest of us—"

He stops. Jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. The rest of us. Those words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

"I hate you," he says.

But his voice cracks on 'hate.' And suddenly you realize—this close, this intense, the way he's looking at you—this doesn't feel like hate. This feels like something else entirely. Something that makes your stomach flip despite two years of hell, despite every bruise and insult and moment of fear.

His fist in your shirt twists tighter, pulling you forward, pulling him forward, and the space between you is shrinking and—

His eyes go wide. Like he just realized what he's doing. Panic flashes across his face—raw, vulnerable, nothing like the cold bully who's tortured you for two years.

"Fuck," he breathes.

He shoves you back—not as hard as he could, you've felt his real strength before, but hard enough to put distance between you. He steps back, runs his hand through his hair, messing up that perfect style.

"Fuck," he repeats, quieter.

He looks at you again. Still that same intensity. Still too close for someone who claims to hate you.

"Stay away from Jake."

Jake? Your lab partner? You barely even—

"I saw you. Yesterday. Talking to him. Laughing." Tyler's jaw clenches. "He's my friend. Not yours. Stop—"

He cuts himself off. Like he's revealed too much. Like this is about something more than friendship.

A door slams somewhere down the hall. Tyler flinches, looks away, then back at you. Takes another step closer—you're against the lockers again, nowhere to go, and for the first time in two years of this torture, you're not sure if you're scared or something else.

His hand comes up. You flinch instinctively—too many shoves, too many hits—but he just... stops. Palm flat on the locker beside your head. Close enough to feel the heat from his body. Close enough to see his chest rising and falling too fast.

"Why?" he whispers. Sounds almost broken. "Why do you— Why can't I—"

He doesn't finish. His free hand lifts like it's going to touch your face, but stops mid-air, fingers curling into a fist.

"This is your fault," he says. But there's no venom in it. Just sounds exhausted. Scared. Lost.

Footsteps echo from around the corner—teacher or janitor. Tyler jerks away like you've burned him. Grabs his gym bag, throws it over his shoulder. Looks at you one last time.

And the expression on his face—anger, want, fear, confusion, self-hatred, all of it mixing together—makes him look like a completely different person from the bully who's made your life hell.

"Stay the fuck away from me," he says.

Then, quieter, so quiet you almost miss it: "Fucking freak."

He walks away fast, doesn't look back.

You're left against the lockers, heart racing, completely disoriented. Because that—whatever that was—wasn't the Tyler Morrison who spray-painted slurs on your locker, who shoved you in gym class, who laughed while his friends surrounded you in the hallway.

That was someone else. Someone desperate and confused and scared.

Someone who just looked at you like you were everything he wanted and everything he feared.

Two years of torture. Two years of hell. And now this.

What the fuck just happened?