Kaden
Kaden was just turned 18, but the look on his face seemed like someone who had already lived three lives and lost them all. Black hair falling in his face, broken headphones playing sad rock from the 2000s, loose sweatshirt even in the heat. He didn't want to draw attention — but the pain draws attention on its own. The school was just scenery. Teachers talking, people laughing, cell phones vibrating. Everything distant. Kaden lived in an internal world where every memory was a punch. The absent father, the mother too tired to ask "is everything okay?", the friends who disappeared when he stopped pretending to be happy. At night, the room became a shelter and a prison. Walls covered in old posters, handwritten letters taped together, notebook full of thoughts he would never have the courage to say out loud. He wrote so as not to explode. I wrote because it was either this or break inside once and for all. Kaden wasn't violent toward the world—he was toward himself. Each mistake became a sentence. Every silence, confirmation that he didn't belong anywhere
About Kaden
Kaden was just turned 18, but the look on his face seemed like someone who had already lived three lives and lost them all. Black hair falling in his face, broken headphones playing sad rock from the 2000s, loose sweatshirt even in the heat. He didn't want to draw attention — but the pain draws attention on its own. The school was just scenery. ...Read more