We were 8, and our school had a rule that boys must wear a cotton vest under their white school shirts. One day, Tom came to school without it. The teacher said, “If you’re so desperate to show off your body, do it in front of everyone,” and started to rip the shirt off his body. That’s when we were all horrified to see the massive purple bruises running down his spine and ribcage.
The teacher mumbled something and rushed out. She came back with the principal, who looked at Tom, then at us. “Everyone, out,” he said. We waited in the hall for what felt like hours. We weren’t allowed to talk. But our eyes were full of questions.
After that day, Tom didn’t show up at school for a week.
When he returned, he wore a vest. But more than that, he wore a look—like someone who had just gone through something too big to explain. I didn’t ask questions. None of us did. But I started sitting next to him at lunch.
Before all this, Tom was just the quiet kid who always gave half his sandwich to the stray dog outside the school gates. Some kids called him weird for that. After that day, they didn’t say much. Respect changed things.
One afternoon, while we were waiting to be picked up, I asked him about the dog. He smiled for the first time in weeks.
“She waits for me every day,” he said. “She knows I’ll bring something.”
I nodded. “She’s lucky.”
He shrugged. “She’s the only one that looks happy to see me when I get home.”
There was so much weight in that one sentence. I didn’t know how to carry it, so I just stayed quiet.
Years passed, and high school came around. Tom stayed quiet, but not invisible. He joined the woodworking club, spent hours after school making things with his hands. He made this small birdhouse once, painted it bright blue and yellow, and gave it to one of the younger students who was scared of starting school. Just handed it to her and said, “Birds need a home too.”
He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. That’s just who he was.
Most people forgot about that day in second grade. Not me. I watched the way he flinched sometimes when someone touched his shoulder too quickly. The way he always stood at the edge of group photos. Like he didn’t think he belonged in the middle.
By the time we were 16, Tom had grown taller, stronger, but still didn’t talk much. That year, something happened that changed everything again.
There was a new kid, Arun, who moved from another town. He was small, had a limp, and wore oversized clothes. The bullies found him before the week was over.
It started with name-calling, the usual stupid stuff. Then they stole his lunch. Tripped him during gym. He didn’t fight back, just quietly picked himself up.
One afternoon, I found Arun sitting alone behind the sports shed. He was crying. “I thought this place would be different,” he said between sobs.
Before I could say anything, Tom appeared.
He didn’t say a word. Just sat down next to him and took a tiny box out of his backpack. Inside it was a little wooden cat, carved and painted carefully.
He placed it in Arun’s hand and said, “They only bother the ones they’re scared of.”
Arun looked confused.
“They see something they don’t understand, so they try to break it,” Tom continued. “Don’t let them.”
From that day, the three of us spent more time together. Tom never liked crowds, but he started staying with us during breaks. Arun stopped sitting alone.
But the bullying didn’t stop.
One day, after school, we saw Arun cornered behind the gym by two older kids. They were laughing, pushing him against the wall.
Before I could react, Tom ran in. No shouting. No warnings. Just ran.
He pulled Arun behind him and faced the two boys. They were bigger. Older. But Tom stood like a wall.
“This your fight?” one of them asked.
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