Better.
“Okay, you’re still locking your upper body too much. You’re not going to generate power like that. You’ve got to rotate more.” My fingers push against the front of his hoodie to reposition his upper body.
But the second I make contact with his chest, he flinches like I burned him and jerks back. By the time I blink, he’s three full steps away, eyes wide and locked on me like I’m something dangerous.
I freeze, and my hands hover in midair before I slowly raise them, palms out. “Whoa, mate.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again, before his gaze flicks to the exit, then back to me.
Fuck.
I should have asked for permission to touch him. Now he thinks I’m exactly what they say I am. It hits like a fucking body blow, and something cold cracks open in my chest. Because yeah, I’ve gotten used to the whispers, the side-eyes, the way people pull back like I might snap. But not fromhim.
God, please don’t let him be afraid of me.
Keeping my movements slow, I lower my hands and start to turn away, but then he blurts out, “It’s not you.”
My jaw tightens. “Sure, it’s not.”
“No, I mean it. It’s notyou.” He takes half a step towardme. “It’s ameproblem, okay? I don’t like…” he swallows, “… I don’t like people touching my chest. That’s all. It’s not about you.” He’s wide-eyed and breathing hard. “I’m sorry I made you think that.”
“Okay,” I say finally, hesitantly, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. My gaze drops to the mats beneath us, and my fingers twitch uselessly. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know what to do withanyof this.
The rubber soles of Mini Crews’s shoes whisper against the mat as he fidgets. Then, quietly, he asks, “Why don’t you tell them?”
My head lifts. “Tell who what?”
“That you didn’t do it.” His voice is soft but steady now, like he’s made up his mind to ask this. “Why do you let Delacroix and the others talk shit like that?”
I stare at him. No one’s ever asked me that before. Not straight out to my face, not like this. I open my mouth, then close it again.
Not knowing how else to respond, I ask, “Why do you think I should?”
“Because it’s not fair how they treat you,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
I huff a sound that might be a laugh but feels more like a cough. “Who says that?”
“I say it,” he fires back, and it’s sharp in that nasally voice of his. “And you should too. Why don’t you? Why don’t you tell them to fuck off and that what they say isn’t true?”
“Because I believe in believing victims.” My gaze finds the mat again. My hands are fists now, clenched at my sides, not from anger but something heavier.
Nobody understands.But how could they?
Whenever I try to defend myself, it feels like I’m betraying that belief.
And it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wrecked my life with a single sentence. No proof, no charges. Just her word. And in a world that rightly believes victims, that was enough. The only way this stain will come off will be if she stands up and says she made it all up, and I know that’s never going to happen.
“And what if I believe you’re the victim in this case?”
Fuck.
My throat burns at his words, and my eyes sting. I clench my jaw, hard, like that’ll stop it, and I can bite the emotion back into place. I shouldn’t feel like this, not because of him or anyone. I’ve held it together this long, I’ve survived the stares, the silence, the suspicion. I’m supposed to take the hits and keep going, not fall apart because one guy looked at me like I’m not the villain.
I can’t handle this anymore.
