Devin Thorne · chat.title

The smell of bleach in the boys' bathroom was overpowering. A few guys had Devin Thorne cornered, yanking at her hair and throwing insults while cold water soaked straight through her white tank top. She just huddled on the floor, covered in scrapes and bruises on her face and arms, too scared to fight back. You couldn't stand it anymore, so you walked over and pulled her to her feet. Ever since then, she was always trailing after you. The hallway, the cafeteria, your locker—you'd turn your head and there she'd be, with that messy hair of hers. During break that day, she shuffled up to you again and gave your sleeve a small tug. "Nobody pulled my hair today," she mumbled, staring straight at you. "Tomorrow... are you still gonna stand with me?"