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Chapter 1. Waiting for Someone to See Me (Markus's POV)

I moved through the crowded hallway like a shadow; untouched and unseen. The other students flowed around me, their laughter and chatter rising and falling in a rhythm that I could hear but never quite join.

September sunlight streamed through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the linoleum floor—cheerful patches that seemed to mock the heaviness I carried within me. I adjusted the strap of my tattered backpack, feeling the familiar weight of textbooks and loneliness pressing against my shoulders.

Being Markus Leitner meant existing on the periphery. I wasn't invisible, exactly; the bullies made sure of that. But I existed in a strange limbo—seen enough to be targeted, but somehow never truly seen at all...

I watched my classmates cluster together in their tight social circles, their conversations peppered with inside jokes and weekend plans. And in doing so, I couldn’t help but wonder: did they know how strange they looked to me, like creatures from another world speaking a language I could never quite grasp?

The bell rang, signaling five minutes until the next class. I leaned against the wall, pulling out my phone to check for social media messages. There it was—a text from Susanna. My heart performed its usual pathetic little leap.

PekingesePrincess: Ciao Markus!!!

PekingesePrincess: Just finished physics test... so boring!!

PekingesePrincess: Lol going to beach with Elena later, wish u were here!

PekingesePrincess: Baci xx

I read it three times, analyzing each word for hidden meanings that weren't there. My thumb hovered over the keyboard as I pondered: what could I say that wouldn't sound desperate or dull?

Susanna lived in a world of sunshine and spontaneity, her messages always bursting with cutesy and adventure... Meanwhile, I lived in my own, dark world and crafted each response like it was a term paper, weighing every word to avoid sounding like a deadbeat.

SouthKid94: Hey, good luck with your test results!

SouthKid94: The beach sounds nice.

SouthKid94: It's sunny here too, but not beach weather.

I hit send, then immediately regretted the banality of my words. Damn, why couldn't I infuse my messages with the same effortless charm that Susanna radiated? I pictured her in Portofino, her dark cherry hair catching the sunlight as she laughed with Elena, eating ice cream in brioche buns, with not a single worry in sight...

The image brought both comfort and pain. Although Susanna was younger than me, she was the dream I clung to—the fantasy that someday I might escape to Italy, be with her, become someone different. Someone better.

Suddenly, a burst of mellow laughter drew my attention down the hall. Karsten Haas stood surrounded by a group that included my main tormentors. His slightly unruly copper hair caught the sunlight, and his easy smile revealed perfectly straight teeth as he gestured animatedly, clearly the center of an amusing story... The others leaned in, captivated. I watched as one of them—the same brute who had tripped me in the cafeteria yesterday—clapped Karsten on the shoulder with genuine affection.

Something bitter and hot rose in my throat. How did he do it? How did Karsten float so effortlessly between social groups, equally at ease with the bullies and the bullied? I'd seen him chatting with Marie in biology class, all gentle smiles and attentive nods... Now, here he was, laughing alongside the very people who made others' lives hell. How could he be so... so two-faced, so chameleonic? Ugh.

And the worst part? Damn, I couldn't even fully hate him! There were moments when Karsten would glance my way, his amber-green eyes meeting mine with something that looked almost like... concern? Sometimes he would attempt conversation during our shared classes, asking about assignments or offering a pencil if I'd forgotten mine...

Oddly, these small gestures only deepened my resentment. I didn't want his pity or his obligatory kindness! If he truly cared, he would stop entertaining the bullies who tormented me.

I pushed away from the wall, deliberately taking the long route to avoid passing by his group. 

Then, my phone buzzed again—not Susanna this time, but Schon.

SchonFertig: Garden tonight?

SchonFertig: Parents away.

SchonFertig: Maike making her famous potato salad.

SchonFertig: Come at 7.

A small weight lifted from my chest. If there was one person who made life at this wretched school bearable, it was Hans "Schon" Roth. We’d bonded in our first year over a mutual hatred of group projects and a shared love of dark humor.

And his internet nickname, SchonFertig? In German, "schon fertig" translated to “I’m so done,” a name I would have gladly stolen if it didn’t already belong to him.

I really liked Schon. No, but really: thinking about him always lifted my spirits. Unlike me, he had a natural charisma that drew people to him, despite his moody streak...

He could’ve been popular if he wanted to be, but he chose to keep to himself—which only made me treasure his friendship even more...

The garden parties at his family's little plot in Reinickendorf had become my refuge during the past years. Unlike the crowded, alcohol-soaked gatherings that our other classmates threw, these were intimate affairs—just a handful of people sitting around a small fire, talking about music or books or films. In that garden, with its overgrown corners and the small summer house that smelled of wood and earth, I felt almost... normal.

Almost... at peace.

I texted back a quick confirmation, already looking forward to the evening. The garden was his favorite place, too; I knew. His home life was complicated—a mother with addiction issues, a father battling depression, and Maike...

Maike troubled him in ways I couldn't quite articulate... Two years older than Schon, she moved through life with a smoothness that seemed practiced rather than natural, at least to me.

Her charm was excessive, her laughter a bit too musical... Sometimes, when she looked at me, I felt like an insect being examined under glass... And yet, she was always especially sweet to me, bringing me extra food at the garden parties, asking detailed questions about my life with an intensity that nearly made me uncomfortable. However, whenever I mentioned my unease to Schon, he dismissed it, protective of his sister despite their complicated relationship.

"You're imagining things, South Kid," he'd say, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Maike's just like that with everyone."

As hell! I'd seen the way she looked at Schon when she thought no one was watching—calculating, proprietary... Almost as if he were something she could control completely—and she went to great lengths to ensure he stayed that way. Over the years, I’d noticed how she subtly chipped away at his confidence, contradicting his stories or reminding others of his embarrassing moments. Small things, easily dismissed individually, but forming a pattern that left me feeling uneasy... I always thought Maike was pretty messed up, but somehow she came off as sweet and friendly—like she wasn’t hiding anything dark underneath...

Maybe Schon was right... Perhaps, I was just being needlessly suspicious of her?The final bell rang, and I hurried to my next class, slipping into my seat just as the teacher began taking attendance... I looked through the window and saw the football field where PE classes would be held later. A familiar ache spread through my chest...

Football had once been my greatest passion. On the field, I transformed from the awkward, brooding Markus into someone fluid and purposeful. I'd been good, too—good enough that my coach had hinted at university scholarships if I kept improving.

But then, as if to spite me, the knee injury struck—leading to months of physical therapy that never fully solved the problem.  Now, even a light jog sent pain shooting up my leg, a cruel reminder of what I'd lost...

I still followed Squadra Azzurra religiously, analyzing their strategies and keeping track of player stats as if this knowledge might somehow maintain my connection to the sport. Sometimes I dreamed I was playing again, the ball an extension of my body as I wove between defenders. I always woke from these dreams with a sense of  emptiness that took hours to fade.

PE class had become a special kind of torture because of it all. Coach Fitmacher never forgot that I'd once been one of his star players, and his disappointment in my current limitations manifested with impatience.

"Push through it, Leitner!" He'd bark when I winced in pain. "Mind over matter!!!"

The other students had picked up on his attitude, their whispers following me as I limped through exercises...

And today's class was no different. After changing into my gym clothes, I joined the others on the field for warm-up laps. As expected, the pain started on the third lap, a dull throbbing that quickly sharpened. I slowed to a walk, ignoring Coach Fitmacher's disapproving glare.

"Look at Leitner," someone muttered behind me. "They used to say he was amazing, but now he can barely walk... full-time loser status.”

I kept my eyes fixed ahead, pretending not to hear it. But then a foot shot out, catching my ankle. I stumbled but managed to stay upright, turning to confront my attacker. Three boys stood there, smirking.

"Oops," said the one in front—Mats, a thickset boy with a perpetual sneer. "Didn't see you there, Leitner."

Before I could respond, Coach Fitmacher blew his whistle, calling us to gather for team assignments. I limped over, feeling their eyes on my back. The humiliation burned low in my stomach, a familiar sensation that I'd learned to swallow down day after day in this joke of a prestigious school.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of discomfort and calculated avoidance. As we finally returned to the locker room, I freshened and changed quickly, eager to escape. But as I reached for my backpack, I knew immediately that something was wrong...

It was heavier than it should have been, and there was a strange smell emanating from it. Feeling a sense of dread, I unzipped the main compartment. Inside, mixed with my books and notebooks, was a collection of trash—banana peels, half-eaten sandwiches, yogurt cups still containing residue that had leaked onto my chemistry notes. The smell hit me fully then, a pungent mix of rotting food and sour dairy.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the locker room. Mats and his friends were watching me, their faces alight with cruel amusement.

I stared down at my ruined notes, at the banana peel draped obscenely across my history textbook. In that moment, something inside me shriveled and died. Without a word, I began removing the trash, placing it in the bin piece by piece. My movements were mechanical, divorced from the rage coursing through me. I could feel tears pressing behind my eyes but refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them. I’d rather crush them into sour apples than let them see me cry.

As I worked, I became aware of someone standing nearby. Glancing up, I saw Karsten Haas, his expression unreadable. Our eyes met briefly before he looked away, continuing to the door in silence...

. Of course. What had I expected? That he would stand up to his friends? That he would help me clean up their mess? How foolish I’d been to think he’d ever care about me!

*

That night, after returning from Schon's garden party, I sat at my desk staring at my dinner—a plate of pasta my grandmother had left for me. I should eat; I knew that. But lately, food had lost its appeal, becoming merely a necessity that I could sometimes ignore. I pushed the plate away, turning instead to my notebook.

I hadn't written in my blog for a few days. The words wouldn't come, or rather, the words that came were too dark, too raw to share... Instead of writing them down, I sketched aimlessly—angular shapes that became twisted figures, faceless and bent. My hand moved without conscious direction, the pressure of the pencil increasing until the tip broke.

Sleep would elude me again tonight; I knew the pattern by now. I would lie in bed, thoughts racing, until the early hours of the morning. Sometimes I would press my nails into my palms until the skin broke, the small pain a counterpoint to the larger one that had no physical form.

Tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. And the day after that. An endless cycle of endurance without purpose...

Sometimes, I couldn’t help but wonder: would I end high school first, or would high school end me?

Ha, ha. I closed my notebook, particularly satisfied with this thought, then turned off the light, and lay down in the darkness, waiting for a dawn I didn't want to see.