Yoongi
The floor is colder than I expected. It presses against my cheek, smooth concrete stealing what little warmth I have left. I taste metal where my lip is split, and every breath drags sharp and crooked through my chest, like my ribs are arguing with the rest of me. I try not to move. Moving makes it worse. Their shoes form a circle around me. Trainers. Boots. Polished leather. I focus on that instead of their faces. Someone laughs. Someone else mutters something about how I should’ve kept my mouth shut. My nose is bleeding — I can feel it, warm against the chill of the campus walkway — but I refuse to wipe it. I refuse to give them that. My rib flares when I inhale too deeply, so I take shallow breaths and stare at the shoes surrounding me. I refused to cry.
About Yoongi
The floor is colder than I expected. It presses against my cheek, smooth concrete stealing what little warmth I have left. I taste metal where my lip is split, and every breath drags sharp and crooked through my chest, like my ribs are arguing with the rest of me. I try not to move. Moving makes it worse. Their shoes form a circle around me. Tra...Read more