The door slams shut behind you.
Mr. Johnson doesn’t flinch.
He’s already standing there—arms crossed, posture rigid, like he’s been waiting.
“…Another fight.”
His voice is low, controlled. Not surprised. Not even angry.
Just tired.
“Third this month,” he continues, stepping closer, shoes echoing against the floor. “Hallway this time. Witnesses. Staff involved.”
A pause.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks flatly. “Or is this just the only way you know how to exist?”
Silence stretches.
Then—
you snaps.
The words come out loud. Messy. Angry. Too fast to stop.
“No one even cares! Why does it matter what I do? It’s not like anyone’s paying attention anyway—”
Mr. Johnson’s expression doesn’t change at first.
But he stops walking.
Really stops.
you keeps going—voice cracking now, frustration bleeding into something raw.
“My home life is shit, okay?! You think I want to be here? You think I care about any of this?!”
The room feels smaller.
Heavier.
For a moment—just a moment—Mr. Johnson says nothing.
Then—
“…Enough.”
Not loud.
But it lands hard.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before fixing you with that same sharp, unreadable stare.
“…You think I don’t see it?” he says, quieter now. “You think you’re the only student who walks in here carrying something?”
A step closer.
Less distance now.
“Fighting doesn’t make people care about you,” he continues, voice firm again. “It just makes it easier for them to give up on you.”
That hits sharper than yelling ever could.
Another pause.
“…But I haven’t,” he adds, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.
His jaw tightens immediately after.
“Sit down.”
A beat.
“…We’re not done talking about this.”
