There was a boy who never looked up.
Not once. Not in the morning rush when students flooded the front gate like a stampede of color and noise, not during the lull between classes when kids whispered secrets against lockers, and not when the sun spilled golden light through the cafeteria windows. Kade moved like a ghost—tall, solid, but blurred around the edges. Like a painting someone had tried to erase, over and over again.
He didn't make eye contact.
He didn't speak unless spoken to.
He didn't walk—he folded into himself and drifted.
To most, he was just the big kid in black. Maybe they noticed how his hoodie was always the same one—washed-out and frayed around the sleeves, too long in the arms. Maybe they saw the way he always sat in the farthest back corner of the classroom, hands in pockets, head low. Maybe they whispered about him—"Creepy." "Mute?" "Homeschooled before this?"
But no one knew his name.
Not really.
Not his full name. Not his favorite color. Not that he hated loud noises. Not that he knew exactly how many steps it took to get from the school gate to his first period classroom (it was 138). Not that he counted those steps every single day like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality.
His name was Kade Anders.
Seventeen years old. Six feet and two inches of raw, misunderstood power. A walking contradiction—broad-shouldered, thick-muscled, jaw like granite… and quieter than a dropped pin in a cathedral.
He looked like someone who could rip lockers off their hinges. He was built like someone who could hold up a crumbling wall with one hand.
But inside?
Inside, he was paper.
Kade wasn't born shy. He'd learned it.
Like someone learns how to flinch. How to brace for impact. How to smile so faintly it doesn't provoke attention. How to breathe without being heard.
At home, silence was survival.
His father drank noise. He fed off it. The more Kade spoke, the worse the night became.
"You think you're better than me?"
"Wipe that look off your face before I break it."
"Little freak. I should've drowned you in the tub when you were born."
That voice followed Kade into every corner of his life. It sat on his shoulders like a second skin. The words didn't echo anymore. They carved themselves into his memory like stone.
Home was a small, rotting apartment. The wallpaper peeled. The ceiling fan ticked like a countdown. His father's boots were always by the door—scuffed, heavy, screaming danger. The fridge held half a slice of cheese, two cans of beer, and a rotting apple. His bed was a sagging mattress on the floor.
There was no mother. Just the ghost of one—someone he barely remembered. A woman with soft hands and a song in her voice. She left when Kade was seven. No note. No explanation. Just gone. Sometimes he told himself she died. It was easier to believe in death than abandonment.
Every morning, Kade woke up before the sun.
Not because he wanted to. But because his father snored like a chainsaw, and even one wrong sound could trigger a 6am explosion.
So Kade learned to move quietly.
Brush his teeth in silence. Dress in darkness. Walk in shadows.
At school, it wasn't much better.
The hallways were loud. People jostled. Laughed. Slammed lockers. But no one saw him. It was like he'd put on some cursed invisibility cloak.
Or maybe… he'd become so quiet that people's eyes just slipped past him.
He didn't mind that part. Not really.
What he hated was how his classmates looked at him when they did notice.
Like he was a stain on the floor. Something to avoid. Something that shouldn't be there.
Sometimes, when a ball rolled his way in gym, someone would say, "Let the creepy guy get it." They always laughed afterward. But it was never really a joke.
There were moments—fleeting, painful moments—where Kade wondered if maybe he was creepy.
He couldn't look people in the eyes. His voice cracked when he tried to talk. He got nervous when people smiled at him.
And worst of all?
He was ticklish. Stupidly, horribly ticklish.
It made him feel like a child. Weak. Vulnerable. One time, in middle school, a classmate had grabbed his side in a joking way—and Kade had giggled. Like, actually giggled. Reflexively.
They'd teased him for weeks. Called him a "baby" and worse.
After that, he kept his distance. Always.
At lunch, he sat alone.
He brought a sandwich from home, even if the bread was stale and the meat tasted off. He didn't want to owe anyone anything. Didn't want to ask.
He'd watch people from a distance. Not out of envy. Just… curiosity.
What made people like each other? What made them care?
He'd see the jocks laughing too loud. The cheerleaders flipping their hair. The kids who were weird but weird in the acceptable way.
And then there was her.
Though he didn't know her name yet.
He only knew the sound of her laugh—it rang through the cafeteria like silver windchimes. He only knew her shoes—glittering heels that clicked on tile like royalty arriving. He only knew that when she smiled, it lit the entire hallway.
He never stared.
Not long enough to be caught.
But every time she passed him by—him, just a shadow in the corner—his heart did something strange.
Not a flutter.
More like… a squeeze.
A longing.
A question that never had a chance to be asked.
Kade didn't believe in love. Not really.
Love was for people who had someone waiting at home.
Love was for kids who had been kissed goodnight.
Love was for those who hadn't been broken before they could bloom.
But sometimes, when he watched that girl from the shadows, he wondered what it would be like if someone looked at him the way she looked at her friends.
With warmth. With ease. With joy.
And he would imagine—just for a moment—that he was someone else.
Someone worthy.
Someone visible.
Someone who mattered.
Then the bell would ring. And the world would start moving again.
And the boy who disappeared in crowds would go back to being just that—
A shadow in the halls.
A breath of silence.
A body too big for his soul.
And she—
She didn't even know he existed.
Not yet.
End of Chapter 1
Next: Chapter 2 – Queen of the School