“Stop following me.”

Zaid says nothing, still walking behind me as I make my way to my next class.

My voice still trembles from the nerves, from the panic attack that almost took me out. But I don’t care.

I step inside Ms. Art’s class, rolling my eyes when Zaid follows. I beeline for a seat beside a quiet girl who sat by herself yesterday, but I am pulled back when Zaid grabs my backpack.

He leads me to the back seats, settling beside me.

“You’re not even in this class,” I hiss, wiping the fresh tears that fall down my face.

“I’m in whatever class I want to me.”

I scoff. “Who are you?”

“I’m Zaid,” He shrugs.

“You know what I mean.”

Ms. Art begins her lesson, telling us to read a chapter of the book she has placed on our desks. I pick up the book and lift it to cover my face as I turn to Zaid.

I clench my jaw, “Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Bullshit,” I grit. It was his fucking fault that I freaked out. I told him to stop, begged him to stop. He did nothing but taunt me and throw it back in my face.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” He whispers. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even lift his own book, just looks straight ahead as if Ms. Art is walking across the front of the room.

“That’s the worst fucking apology.”

“It’s not an apology,” He turns to me, his face sharp, his eyes calculating. “I’m not apologizing for something you can’t control.”

My heart slams in my chest and the tips of my finger turn numb. “Asshole.”

“I learned to control my panic. You need to do that, too.”

I kick him in the shin beneath the desks and a smirk lifts his lips. That only makes me angrier, that wasn’t the intended reaction. “What? You think because we showed each other our scars, we’re the same? That we can bond? Newsflash, no one wants to be friends with a degenerate.”

He snorts, his shoulders shaking.

“I’m glad you find this amusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s funny. My father calls me that.”

“Well, he sounds like a smart man.”

He turns to me, his hands in tight fists. “You honestly find it a compliment to be compared to a forty year old man?”

My nostrils flare. “When you lose your forty year old father, yes, it’s a compliment.”

Hurt flashes in his eyes. “Then I take it that should mean it would be complimentary for me to be compared to a forty year old woman?”

Shock leaves me speechless and my eyes, on their own accord, trace down to his chest and his stomach where his scar is. He doesn’t say anything, but that look in his eyes is enough confirmation.

It’s the same look I see in the mirror when I can’t stop the guilty thoughts from taking hold of my brain. That look I get when I wish I was the dead one so that my father and Alex could be alive. That look I get when I don’t understand why it was me that survived.