The streets outside campus were darker than usual.
Susan and Jackim walked in silence, their shadows stretching long and broken under the dim streetlights.
The city buzzed around them — car horns, laughter from nearby bars, neon signs flickering like dying stars.
But inside Susan, there was only emptiness.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
---
Jackim stopped in front of an old bus stop.
The bench was cracked and covered in graffiti, the shelter half broken.
"This is me," Susan said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
Jackim hesitated, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"I don't want to leave you alone," he said.
Susan offered a small, sad smile.
"I've been alone my whole life. I'll manage."
---
He opened his mouth to argue, but the bus rumbled into view — ancient and coughing out black smoke.
Susan stepped back, letting the weight of the night close around her.
Jackim reached into his worn jeans, pulling out a crumpled ten-dollar bill.
"Here. Just in case you need anything."
Susan stared at it.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than anyone had ever given her freely.
Tears pricked her eyes — unexpected, unwelcome.
She took the money with trembling fingers.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice cracking.
Jackim gave a small, pained nod.
The bus door screeched open.
Susan climbed aboard, not daring to look back.
---
She found a seat at the very back, curling into herself as the bus jolted forward.
Rain began to drizzle against the dirty windows.
Susan pressed her forehead to the glass, watching the city blur past.
Everything inside her hurt — her shoulder, her pride, her heart.
---
Back at the campus, Jessica and her clique celebrated.
Laughter echoed from the luxurious dorm lounge, champagne bottles popping like gunfire.
"Another problem solved," Jessica giggled, clinking glasses with her friends.
She basked in the attention, in the power.
No one would ever touch her.
Not when her daddy owned half the school board.
---
Meanwhile, in a cheap apartment across town, Susan trudged up the creaky steps.
Her adoptive parents weren't home yet — probably out drinking or gambling again.
The silence was a relief.
She dragged herself into her tiny room — bare except for a thin mattress, a cracked mirror, and a stack of tattered schoolbooks.
Dropping onto the mattress, she stared up at the water-stained ceiling.
---
The tears came then.
Silent.
Relentless.
She pressed her fist to her mouth to muffle the sobs.
No one could see her weak.
Not even the walls.
---
Her phone buzzed weakly on the floor.
A text from Jackim.
> "You're not alone. Remember that."
Susan stared at the screen, chest tightening painfully.
She wanted to believe him.
She needed to believe him.
But belief was dangerous.
Belief got you hurt.
Still, she typed back with shaking fingers:
> "Thank you."
Two words.
So small.
So heavy.
---
Outside, the rain turned into a downpour, hammering the roof like angry fists.
Inside, Susan lay awake, her broken heart beating quietly against the storm.
Tomorrow would come.
And with it, another fight just to survive.
But for tonight, she allowed herself — just for a moment — to dream that maybe, just maybe, someone cared.
---