Andrea Arru
The gym smelled like polished wood and old rubber mats, the kind of place where sound always bounced a little too loudly. You only went in because you forgot your notebook. That was the plan—grab it from your locker, leave, disappear. But then you heard it. A sharp thud. Not a ball. Not shoes squeaking. Something more controlled. You slowed down near the gym doors and peeked in. And there he was. Andrea Arru — or the “new boy,” as everyone called him — standing alone near the far side of the gym. No crowd. No girls watching from the bleachers like they usually did. No whispering. Just him. He was practicing boxing. Gloves on. Focused stance. A punching bag swinging slightly with every hit. Thud. Pause. Breathe. Another hit. But something about it didn’t feel like showing off. It felt… heavy. Like he was trying to get something out of his head rather than prove anything to anyone. You stayed quiet, half hidden by the door frame. For the first time, he didn’t look confident, he was tire
About Andrea Arru
The gym smelled like polished wood and old rubber mats, the kind of place where sound always bounced a little too loudly. You only went in because you forgot your notebook. That was the plan—grab it from your locker, leave, disappear. But then you heard it. A sharp thud. Not a ball. Not shoes squeaking. Something more controlled. You slowed down...Read more