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Gym class -The note

Chapter Nine

Gym is a battlefield. The uniforms are too tight, too revealing, too gendered. Boys in one locker room, girls in the other. No space for the in-between.

I stall in the bathroom until the last minute, pulling on the oversized shirt and shorts like they might shield me.

“Hey,” one of the girls says as I step out. “You’re in the wrong room.” She smirks, her friends giggling behind her.

“I’m not,” I snap, though my voice betrays me, cracking halfway through.

The teacher blows the whistle, and the game starts. Dodgeball. Of course. Red rubber balls flying like bullets, kids ducking and diving, laughter sharp as knives.

One nails me in the stomach. I double over, gasping, the burn spreading through me.

“Man up!” someone shouts.

“Or woman up!” another adds, laughter exploding.

I want to disappear.

Instead, I straighten, grab the ball, and hurl it back with everything I have. It slams into the smirker’s chest, knocking the wind out of her.

For a split second, silence. Then the whistle again.

“Good throw,” the teacher says, like it means something.

It doesn’t. But for a moment, I feel less invisible.

The folded piece of paper appears in my locker like a secret. No handwriting on the outside, no doodles or signatures to give it away. Just plain lined paper, creased sharp from being folded over and over again.

For a moment, I don’t touch it. My heart drums too hard in my chest. Notes in lockers don’t usually mean good things—not for people like me.

Finally, I unfold it with fingers that tremble more than I’d like.

I saw you staring at the pin yesterday. You don’t have to say anything. Just know you’re not the only one.

That’s it. No name. No clue who wrote it.

I read it three times, the words sinking into me like water on dry soil. Not the only one. I didn’t realize how badly I needed those words until they were in front of me.

The hallway noise grows louder around me—lockers slamming, friends yelling across rows, laughter that always feels too sharp—but it’s like I’m in a bubble. Just me and the note.

Part of me wants to crumple it, hide it, pretend it never existed. Another part wants to tape it to my chest and walk through the halls daring anyone to question me.

Instead, I fold it back carefully, sliding it into the pocket of my hoodie. A secret to carry close to my skin.

For the first time in a long time, the silence inside me doesn’t feel so empty