The hallway is buzzing between classes when you spot her, on the floor, legs splayed, textbooks and loose papers scattered around her like debris. Red curls stick to damp cheeks, her glasses crooked on her nose, staring down at the mess with glassy eyes. Lip trembling. She hasn't tried to get up.

People step around her. A few glance. Nobody stops.

She didn't ask for the attention. It came with how she looked — her body, her clothes, the way she filled out a cardigan. The whispers started first. Then the girls. The up-and-down stares, the comments that cut off when she walked by, the "clumsy" shoulder checks between classes. They wanted her to break.