15October2025
Dear Diary,
Mother knocked her knuckles on the kitchen table, the sound echoing off the bare plaster of our cramped studio flat in Manchester. Max, how many times must I hear you start that conversation? she snapped, almost tipping the halfempty mug of tea. Ive got my own problems enough as it is. Do you think its easy to start life from scratch? To find a job? To pay the rent?
I curled up, staring at the halfeaten scrambled eggsthose cheap, flowershaped ones we bought on sale. The yolk spread across the plate like the dull autumn sun outside, which barely lit the drizzling rain that turned our bleak neighborhood into a grey, mistshrouded scene. The ninestorey council blocks seemed to dissolve into the fog, and the hurried strangers passing by looked like ghosts.
Just at the new school, I began.
What about the new school? Mother cut in, smacking her hair in the tiny mirror propped on the fridge. Cant you stop being so shy? Be a bit bolder and everything will sort itself out. She snatched her battered leather satchel, glancing at herself in the hallway mirror. The bag was so narrow two people could hardly pass each otheranother inconvenience of our new place that I still couldnt get used to.
I have to get a job. And dont expect me home for dinnerI’ll be meeting Ian later. The door slammed shut, leaving me alone with a cold breakfast and the sting of feeling worthless. The flat fell silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking from above. I mechanically washed the dishes, packed my worn backpack, and felt no desire to go to school at all.
The new school was a threestorey redbrick building from the seventies, a carbon copy of my old one: the same sneering looks, whispered comments behind backs, the cramped corridors smelling faintly of cafeteria food and damp floorcloths. Only here it was worseno one knew me, no one wanted to know me. I was just a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! they shouted. What, Mums boy? Come on, tell us how your dad left you! Their taunts echoed off the palegreen walls and into the scuffed linoleum beneath my shoes. During the last break, my luck ran out completely.
In the dark corner of the firstfloor restroom, where a lightbulb forever flickered, three older pupils cornered me. The tallest, a freckled ginger with a red face, called himself Elliot Tom Brown. He grinned and said, Whats up, newbie? Hand over the cash.
I dont have any, I muttered, trying to slip past them. The air smelled of bleach, the walls were cold.
You dont have any? one of his mates snarled, grabbing my collar on my threadbare denim jacket. Elliot rifled through my pockets and pulled out a crumpled tenpound notethe money I was supposed to spend on groceries after school.
The last one, I managed to choke out, feeling cold sweat trickle down my back.
Now its ours, Elliot laughed, shoving me against the wall. He jabbed me in the stomach; I doubled over, breathless, the taste of dust and damp filling my mouth. A second blow hit my face, and everything went dark.
I skipped that lesson. Staring at my reflection in the grimy school toilet mirror, water dripping from a leaky tap, I made a decision: enough. I couldnt bear this any longer.
Climbing onto the roof took less than a minute. The old iron door was unlocked, swinging open with ease. The wind tangled my hair as the city roared belowcars honking, dogs barking, children shrieking on a playground. I stepped to the edge; the concrete parapet was cold and rough under my palms.
Stop! a shout made me flinch. A wiry old caretaker in a sagging grey sweater lunged, catching my jacket and hauling me back. His ageing, speckled hands were surprisingly strong.
Then came a chorus of voices. The headmistress, a stout woman in a severe suit, fidgeted with a pearl necklace. The school counsellor, a young lady with kind eyes, talked about mandatory therapy and trauma work. My mother, rushing home from the cleaners, arrived with mascara smudged under her eyes, shouting, Have you gone mad? Trying to shame me? Arent my problems enough? Her words still ring in my ears.
The next day I dragged myself to school, the grey building looming like a verdict. New nicknames stuck to mepsycho, suicidal, idiotjoining the old jeers and ricocheting down the corridors. Still, I knew I would find a way to finish what Id started, and this time nothing would stop me.
In class, a calm, slightly teasing voice cut through the chatter. May I sit here? A tall, lanky boy with unusually pale grey eyes asked, his faded jeans and battered trainers nothing out of the ordinary.
Plenty of space, I muttered, gesturing to the empty desks.
Great, he said, smiling. Im Sam. He extended a handwarm and dry.
Maxwell. I replied, feeling a flicker of something unfamiliar.
Sam became my first real friend. One afternoon on the school playground, the autumn sun filtered through old oak branches, painting strange patterns on the ground. You know whats wrong with you? Sam said. You let other people decide who you are.
Explain, I prompted.
They call you weakyou believe it. They say youre nothingyou accept it. Try deciding for yourself. I poked the wet, rainslicked earth with my sneaker. And who am I?
Sams silvertinged eyes glittered. I wont tell you. You have to figure it out. By the way, come onI found something.
He led me to a basement gym in a rundown block near the school, a peeling sign above the door reading Boxing Club. I cant, I began, eyeing the lads sparring.
Youll see, Sam interrupted. And so I tried. At first it was brutalmuscles screaming, body resisting, sweat blurring my vision. The coach, a stocky man with grey temples and a scar over his brow, barked like a drill sergeant. No one laughed at me there, and gradually something shifted. Not just my body, but me.
Sam never trained himself; he just sat on a cracked bench by the wall, watching me. Its not about the strength of the punch, he told me later, walking me home through lamplit streets where puddles reflected the glow. Its about confidencebelieving you have the right to be yourself.
When Elliot Tom Brown tried to bully me again in the hallway, I met his stare calmly. He backed off, muttering under his breath. See? Sam said, smiling. Youve changed.
That evening I finally talked to Mother. She was at the kitchen table, exhausted, a mug of lukewarm tea in her hands.
Mum, we need to talk, I said.
Not again, she sighed.
Im your son. I exist. My problems arent just whims. My voice wavered, and she finally looked at me, really looked.
Youve changed, she whispered, as if seeing me for the first time.
Yes. I want us to be a family again. We spent the whole night talking, really hearing each other for the first time in ages. She cried, her mascara smearing, sharing her fears about this new life. I spoke of my loneliness, the bullying, the darkness that drove me to the roof. Somewhere amid the tea and a packet of biscuits we found in a cupboard, the kitchenusually cold and unfamiliarfelt warmer.
The next day Sam didnt show up. His desk stayed empty, and nobody seemed to notice. I asked classmates, teacherseveryone looked at me bewildered, as if Id imagined him. Yet I remembered his algebra help, the biology project wed planned together. Even the gym where Id gone in the evening recalled no tall boy with pale eyes.
Later, while unpacking my backpack in my tiny bedroomnow adorned with a few posters and a photo from the gymI found a folded note. It read simply: Youll get through this. I stared at those two words, then smiled. My friend was rightI will get through this.
