Glass Heart

"For the boy who never came back from the first stall." We were ten. Small hands, big fears — like the janitor, we thought he was stealing kids when the hallways got too quiet. You liked green, I liked red, You said green felt like tree tops and safe places. We were supposed to grow into something. You asked for the pass. I watched you go — just across the hall, stairs climbing like they always did, you jumpimg two steps at a time. Then — a crash. Not loud like thunder, but sharp, final — an iron chair losing its purpose. I ran, I knew you were hurt. Up and around and into that too-still bathroom. First stall. I found you. A swing chain — the one from the playground, the broken one we used to joke about as if rust couldn’t hurt us. Your shoes hung in silence. Mine froze in place. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move until the weight of glass filled my chest. Since then, my heart hasn’t beaten the same. It doesn’t bleed — it cracks. Every year, on some forgotten Tuesday, I still hear the crash. Still see green. Still wait for you to come back down those stairs.