Boundaries

4

My second day of senior year starts off like any other day—me trying to blend into the background, survive my classes, and avoid people getting too close. Literally. The thought of anyone brushing against me sends a shiver crawling down my spine. Not that it’s hard to avoid contact in a school where half the population’s glued to their phones and the other half couldn’t care less about my existence.

The day drags on like usual—class after class of half-paying attention, half-trying not to get noticed. By the time lunch rolls around, I’m already tired of the noise and the crowd. Lunch is the worst, honestly. It’s like the whole school turns into a zoo, everyone clumping into their little packs, laughing too loud, and throwing fries like they’re auditioning for some high school comedy.

I’m practically counting the minutes until I can escape this place. I grab my tray and find my usual spot near the far window, the one with the drafty AC vent. Most people avoid it, which is exactly why I sit there.

I’m mid-bite into what I think is supposed to be lasagna when I hear some gossips, well, gossiping.

“Did you see the new guy?”

I glance up. A group of girls a few tables away are huddled together, whispering loud enough for the entire cafeteria to hear.

“Yeah, he’s hot,” one of them says, twirling her hair like she’s in a rom-com. “And he’s already hanging out with Jack and his crew.”

No please ,not Jack.

His reputation as the star quarterback and social kingpin lets him get away with murder, or at least the high school equivalent of it. He’s the guy who can ruin your day, and, or life with a single comment and make it sound like he’s joking.

“Of course he is,” another girl snorts. “Birds of a feather, right?”

I tune out after that, my appetite officially gone.

I don’t even have to look to know what’s happening. It’s the same thing every time someone new transfers in, especially if they’re remotely attractive or interesting. Half the cafeteria gawks, the other half whispers behind their hands. But this time, the buzz did seem a little louder than usual.

After school, I head to the parking lot, ready to grab my bike and get home before te place is crowded.

A group of guys, gathered around something. Laughing. Shoving. My stomach sinks as I get closer. I know that laugh. Jack. And I know that something.

My bike.

They’re tossing it back and forth like it’s some kind of toy, the back wheel spinning wildly every time it lands. For a second, I just stand there, frozen. It’s not like I’m attached to the bike—it’s old, falling apart, barely functional—but it’s mine. And it’s the only way I’m getting home.

“Hey! Stop!” I yell, the words tumbling out before I can think.

The guys freeze, turning to look at me like I’m some sort of annoyance they can’t be bothered with. Jack is the first to react, shoving the bike toward me with zero effort.

“Here, man,” he says, smirking. “Sorry, didn’t see it there. My car must’ve roughed it up.”

His voice drips with fake sincerity, and the smirk on his face makes my blood boil. His friends snicker behind him, all piling into his convertible like nothing happened.

“Feral! You coming?” Jack calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m here,” a voice answers.

That voice. My chest tightens, my hands instinctively pulling into my sleeves. I know that voice.

I hesitate, torn between walking away and confirming what I already suspect. I wanted to walk away, at least this way I'd never know for sure.

But i couldn't help it.

I glance up, and there he is. Our eyes meet, and it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the parking lot. He’s standing a few feet away, holding one of my bike’s pedals. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing until now.

His brown eyes hold the same look I saw yesterday—the same guilt-ridden expression he wore at the animal shelter. The one he gave his dog.

Jack calls his name again, and the look is gone. He turns away, sliding into the car without another word.

The whole situation is so ridiculous, I almost laugh. Almost.

This is what I get for trusting Drew. He swore he’d pick me up today, said he owed me. But I had a feeling he'd forget. Again. So I brought my bike instead, thinking I’d play it safe.

Yeah. Real safe.

Walking home takes twice as long as it should—partly because I’m lugging my wrecked bike, and partly because I’m too drained to move any faster. At least I didn’t have work today. Small mercies, I guess.

When I finally make it home, I drop the mangled bike onto the lawn and head inside. Predictably, Dad’s on the couch, eyes glued to some documentary series he’s probably been binge-watching all day. I ignore him and head straight to my room, shutting the door behind me. I don’t plan on coming out until it’s time for dinner.

It’s past midnight now and the house is silent, the kind of quiet that feels almost alive, pressing in on you from all sides. and everyone else is asleep, but I’m wide awake, sitting cross-legged on my bed with the dim glow of my desk lamp casting long shadows across the room.

I hold out my hand, palm up, and stare at it like it belongs to someone else. It’s steady now, but I know that’s temporary. Just the thought of someone touching it—of their skin brushing against mine—makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Okay, Matthew,” I mumble to myself, my voice low and even. “You’ve got this.”

On the nightstand beside me is a small jar of lotion. It’s unscented, hypoallergenic—chosen specifically to avoid overwhelming my senses. I pick it up, squeeze a dollop into my palm, and set it down carefully. My movements are slow, deliberate.

I rub my hands together, spreading the lotion over my skin. The sensation is cool, smooth, and strangely grounding. I focus on the texture, the way it glides over my fingers and palms, and try to ignore the part of my brain that’s screaming at me to stop.

“You’re in control,” I whisper, like saying it out loud will make it true.

Next to the lotion is a small, worn tennis ball. It’s old, the fuzz mostly gone, but it’s familiar. I pick it up and roll it between my hands, letting the slight roughness graze my fingertips. This is step one: getting used to the idea of contact, even if it’s just with an object.

The next step is harder.

On the edge of my bed is a soft, knitted blanket. I stare at it for a long moment, my heart already picking up speed. It’s just a blanket. A thing. Inanimate. Harmless. But wrapping it around myself feels like a mountain I’m not sure I can climb.

It's just me.

no one else.

I reach for the blanket and pull it over my shoulders, letting the fabric drape around me. The weight of it is both comforting and suffocating, like a hug I didn’t ask for but somehow need. My muscles are tense, my breathing shallow, but I stay still, forcing myself to sit with the discomfort.

I close my eyes and try to picture a time when someone's touch wouldn't feel like a threat. When a pat on the back or a handshake wouldn't be a minefield of panic.

I stay like that for what feels like hours, wrapped in the blanket, holding the tennis ball, letting the lotion dry on my skin. Slowly, my heart rate steadies, and the tightness in my chest loosens.

It’s really not much, but it’s something.

When I finally lie down, staring at the ceiling in the dim light, do i think , what kind of name is Feral?