I will not push others to make myself noticed

I was called in to write lines.

I will not push others to make myself noticed.

The chalk felt heavy in my hand, a weight for what I had done—

for the shove that pushed him not off the bench, but out of the room.

He was crying. His brother gone - a word that didn’t fit, a word that never felt real,

but I saw the way people looked at him, like he was broken, like he was glass,

as if their eyes would shatter him too.

And I wanted the eyes on me.

So I pushed.

I will not push others to make myself noticed.

The words are strange, as though writing them should fix it, but they only make it worse.

Each stroke, a reminder of his face crumpling like paper, his hands shaking - words stuck behind them

and the weight of his brother’s death pressing down on us all.

Mr Howorth doesn’t understand. He stands at the front, his voice thick like wool, saying, “Think about how your actions affect others.”

But what does he know?

He doesn’t see the way the classroom holds its breath when he walks in.

The way the walls seem to close in,

and silence falls like fog.

He doesn’t see the way we all pretend to not notice the empty chair beside him.

He doesn’t see that empathy is something you can’t teach.

You can’t write it down on paper and expect it to grow.

I will not push others to make myself noticed.

But the lines don’t take away the look in his eyes when I passed him the note, shoved it into his hand, “Don’t cry, it’s just a brother.”

I thought I could be his savior, make him laugh, take away the weight of everyone’s pity,

But it only made him shrink, a ghost of the boy he used to be, his fingers trembling, tearing the note in half.

I’m writing lines. But the words won’t make a difference, won’t change the way he looks at me now, or the way I look at myself, as if my name is already scrawled across his grief.