The shove happened before Ari understood he was moving.
The boy was close again—the same one from earlier—standing just within Ari's space, chewing too loudly, elbow brushing Ari's arm as he reached for ketchup. It was nothing. It was everything.
Ari's hand shot out.
Not planned. Not considered.
Pure reflex.
The boy stumbled backward, tray tipping, food spilling across the floor. He hit the bench hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. For a split second, the cafeteria went quiet—not calm, but stunned.
Then the noise exploded.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Hey—stop!"
"Ari!"
The boy began to cry, loud and panicked, clutching his arm. Adults rushed in, voices sharp with alarm. Someone grabbed Ari's shoulder.
"Don't touch me!" he screamed, the words tearing out of him, raw and uncontrolled.
Hands restrained him anyway. Stronger. Firmer. He thrashed, heart hammering, the world collapsing into chaos again—worse now, because it was focused on him.
"Get the principal."
"Call his parents."
"Is the other child okay?"
Fear saturated the air.
Not concern. Not confusion.
Fear.
Ari felt it immediately, the way animals sensed threat. The adults' faces were tight, wary. They held him at a distance, as if he might bite.
He didn't understand what he had done wrong—only that everything had tipped too far, too fast, and now there was no way back.
The principal's office was small and quiet, but the quiet felt sharp, brittle. Ari sat in a chair that was too big for him, feet dangling, body vibrating with leftover adrenaline.
"What happened?" the principal asked, carefully.
Ari stared at the floor. The scratch there looked like a crack, splitting the tiles apart.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
The words were true. They didn't help.
His parents arrived flushed and frantic. His mother's eyes darted between Ari and the adults, searching for reassurance that didn't exist.
"He just—lost control," the teacher said. "It was sudden."
Lost control. The phrase hung heavy.
Ari felt small then—not guilty, not ashamed, but exposed. Like something inside him had burst through his skin, visible and unacceptable.
His father knelt in front of him, voice tight. "You can't do that," he said. "You scared people."
Ari nodded, tears burning his eyes. He didn't know how to explain that the shove hadn't been a choice. That it had been a release, the only one available.
The adults spoke in lowered voices now.
"Evaluation."
"Behavioral issues."
"Safety concerns."
Ari understood none of it fully, but he understood the tone.
Something about him had crossed a line.
As they led him out of the office, Ari caught a glimpse of the boy he had shoved, sitting with a nurse, eyes wide and wary. The boy looked at Ari like he was dangerous.
That look lodged deep in Ari's chest.
He had wanted the noise to stop. Instead, he had become the thing everyone was afraid of.
And as the door closed behind him, Ari felt something new settle into place—not control, not clarity, but a sharp, enduring awareness:
When the pressure built inside him, it would come out. And when it did, the world would respond with fear.