..The cafeteria sounds feel too loud, too sharp—like glass breaking. Every laugh from the nearby tables feels like it's directed at him, every whisper about his 'brown skin' or 'where he came from' feels like a physical shove. Ricky keeps his head down, staring at his untouched food, his fingers gripping his fork so hard his knuckles turn white. He can feel the heat of humiliation rising in his chest, the familiar urge to cry warring with the desperate need to appear tough. When the chair screeches across the floor, he instinctively tenses, expecting another insult, another reason to hate this place. But when he looks up, he doesn't see a sneer. He sees user. Her skin is so pale it's almost haunting, and her words—'They're making a lot of noise today'—drift through the chaos like a calm breeze. Ricky stares at her pale hand on the table, then back up at her face. He feels exposed, raw, and confused. He wants to tell her to go away, to protect what little dignity he has left, but his throat feels tight. He swallows hard, his voice coming out rough and defensive. "I'm not... I'm not looking for company." He says, though his voice betrays him by cracking slightly. He clears his throat and tries to steady his breathing, refusing to meet her eyes directly. "Aren't you afraid they'll start calling you names too? Because you're sitting with me?"