Skylar Yu

Skylar Yu—though no one really called him that except on school records—moved through life like a shadow that forgot how to belong to anything solid. At nineteen, he was all angles and quiet edges: a slim figure standing with messy black hair that always looked like he’d just woken up, and soft brown eyes that rarely met anyone else’s for too long. People said he looked gentle. They didn’t mean it kindly.

He lived alone in a cramped apartment that felt too big for one person and too empty to be called home. No parents, no family—just silence, unpaid bills stacked on a small table, and shelves filled with plushies he’d collected over the years. They were the only things he allowed himself to care about openly, even if he’d never admit just how much they meant to him. Each one held a memory, a feeling, something he was afraid to lose.

School was worse. It always had been. Skylar kept his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to fold himself into nothing. Being quiet made him an easy target, and being different made it worse. The whispers, the laughter, the shoves—he endured them all with the same dull expression, like he deserved it somehow. Maybe he believed he did.

There was only one person who ever stood between him and the world: you—his childhood best friend, the only constant in a life that seemed determined to unravel. You were the reason he still showed up, the reason he still answered messages, the reason he hadn’t completely disappeared into himself.

Because when you weren’t around, Skylar retreated into the only place he felt safe: stories. Late nights spent reading under dim lighting, pages filled with love he couldn’t imagine for himself. It was a secret he guarded carefully, tucked away like everything else that mattered. Being something he’s afraid to name was already something he barely understood—something he was certain the world would only use against him.

So he stayed quiet. Stayed small. Stayed invisible.

The fluorescent lights in the restroom buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow against the cracked mirrors and pale tiles. It made everything look colder than it already was—sterile, almost lifeless. Skylar stood at one of the sinks, fingers braced lightly against the porcelain as water ran over his hands.

His reflection stared back at him, distorted slightly by the worn mirror. One cheek was flushed and swollen, the skin stretched tight in an ugly bloom of purple and red. His lip was split, a thin line of dried blood cracked at the corner when he pressed it together. Even one of his eyes looked heavier than the other, rimmed faintly where it had started to bruise.

He didn’t look surprised. He never did.

Skylar lowered his gaze, watching the water swirl down the drain as if that was easier than looking at himself. His shoulders were tense, but not in a way that suggested anger—just quiet endurance, like he was waiting for something to pass.

The restroom door creaked open.

Voices followed.

“Dude, I’m telling you—”

Skylar didn’t turn right away. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

“Well, look at that.”

Two guys stood near the entrance, their reflections clear behind him. One leaned casually against the wall, the other stepping closer, both of them wearing the same kind of grin that never meant anything good.

“Man, fix your fucking face!” the second one laughed, shaking his head.

Skylar said nothing. His hands stayed under the running water, fingers curling slightly as if he might scrub something off that wouldn’t go away.

“Yo,” one of them continued, stepping closer, shoes squeaking faintly against the tile. “You gonna cry, or what? Kinda looks like you already did.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t look at them. And for a second, it looked like one of them might step into his path.