Abbie's Yanderes

The morning air was crisp, biting at Abbie’s cheeks as he stood at the edge of the school grounds. His hands, trembling slightly, gripped the straps of his backpack until his knuckles turned as white as the paper he was made of. To anyone else, the building ahead was just a place of learning, but to Abbie, it was a gauntlet. It was a fortress of ink-stained terror where his low grades were usually met with the sharp edge of a compass or the cold, predatory glare of Miss Circle.

He took a shaky breath, his bowl-cut hair swaying as he hung his head. "Just get through it," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rustle of the trees. "Just stay under the radar. Don't fail the quiz. Don't look them in the eye."

Abbie stepped onto the pavement, his sneakers squeaking against the concrete. Usually, this was the part where Oliver or Zip would trip him, or perhaps Edward would mock his stutter. He braced himself for the impact, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears. He waited for the laughter, the pointing, or the flying crumpled paper balls.

It never came.

As he pushed open the heavy front doors, the usual chaotic roar of the hallway died down instantly. It wasn't the silence of a classroom when a teacher enters; it was something heavier, more concentrated. Abbie froze in the doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Every single student in the hallway had stopped. Lana and Abbie’s usual friend group weren't even chatting; they were simply standing still, their heads turned in his direction. But they weren't sneering. Their eyes were wide, shimmering with an intensity that made Abbie’s skin crawl.

"U-um, excuse me," Abbie murmured, trying to shuffle past a group of older students.

Instead of shoving him aside, the students parted like the Red Sea. They didn't just move; they lingered, their bodies leaning slightly toward him as he passed. A girl he didn't even know reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his sweater with a feather-light touch.

"Good morning, Abbie," she whispered, her voice sounding like honey poured over glass.

Abbie didn't answer. He quickened his pace, his eyes darting toward the floor. He passed the lockers where Oliver usually hung out. The bully was leaning against the metal, but instead of a mischievous grin or a trip-wire foot, Oliver was watching him with a strange, glazed expression. As Abbie scurried past, Oliver didn't say a word—he simply blew a small, mocking kiss and winked, his eyes tracking Abbie’s every movement with obsessive focus.

*What is happening?* Abbie thought, his panic rising. *Is this a prank? It has to be a prank.*

He turned the corner toward his first period, hoping to find sanctuary in the classroom, but the atmosphere in the hallway only grew thicker. He could hear the soft pitter-patter of footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A small crowd of students was following him, keeping a respectful but terrifying distance. They weren't talking to each other. They were just watching him, their faces twisted into expressions of disturbing adoration.

He reached the door to the math room. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob. This was the lion’s den. Miss Circle would surely snap everyone back to reality. She didn't tolerate nonsense, and she certainly didn't tolerate whatever weird cult-like behavior was happening out here.

He pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The room was silent. Miss Circle was standing at the chalkboard, her long, jagged compass arm resting against the wood. Beside her stood Miss Bloomie and Miss Thavel. Usually, the sight of all three teachers in one room meant someone was about to be executed for a failing grade. Abbie felt the familiar urge to bolt, his knees knocking together.

Then, the teachers turned.

Miss Circle’s single eye widened. The sharp, terrifying grin she usually wore softened into something much more unsettling—a look of pure, unadulterated doting. She didn't growl. She didn't threaten him with a failing mark.

"Abbie," she purred, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. "You’re early. How studious of you."

Miss Bloomie stepped forward, her claws clicking against the floor. "We were just talking about you, dear. You look particularly vibrant today."

Miss Thavel nodded, her head tilting at an unnatural angle as she watched him walk toward his desk. "So delicate," she murmured, loud enough for him to hear. "We must make sure nothing happens to you today."

Abbie sat down at his desk, his hands shaking so hard he could barely pull out his notebook. He felt the weight of their stares—six eyes from the front of the room, and dozens more from the students who had filtered in behind him. Nobody took their seats. They all just stood in the aisles, facing him.

"I-I forgot my homework," Abbie blurted out, hoping a confession would break the spell and return things to the status quo of being yelled at.

Miss Circle let out a low, melodic laugh. She walked over to his desk, her towering frame casting a long shadow over him. Abbie flinched, expecting the compass to swing down. Instead, she reached out with her human hand and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

"It doesn't matter, Abbie," she whispered, leaning down until her face was inches from his. "Rules are for people we don't care about. For you? We can make an exception for everything."

"But... the quiz?" Abbie squeaked, his voice cracking.

"You've already passed," Miss Bloomie said from behind him. He hadn't even heard her move. She placed her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. "You’ve passed everything. You’re the most important thing in this school now."

Abbie looked around the room, pleading for someone to laugh, for someone to tell him this was a dream. But Lana was just staring at him from three desks away, her hands clasped under her chin, her eyes filled with a terrifying, watery devotion. Even Engel, who was usually the voice of reason, was nodding in agreement with the teachers, his gaze fixed on Abbie like he was a holy relic.

"I... I think I need to go to the nurse," Abbie said, standing up so quickly his chair screeched against the floor.

The reaction was instantaneous. The entire room took a collective step forward. The smiles didn't fade, but the intensity in their eyes sharpened.

"Are you feeling unwell, Abbie?" Miss Thavel asked, her voice dropping an octave. "We can't have that. We'll take care of you. We'll all take care of you."

"No!" Abbie shouted, the sudden volume of his own voice surprising him. "I mean... I’m fine. I just need some air."

He bolted for the door. He expected someone to grab him, to tackle him to the ground, but they simply let him pass, their heads swiveling in unison to watch him go. As he burst back into the hallway, he realized the school had changed.

The posters on the walls—usually diagrams of anatomy or mathematical formulas—had been replaced. He slowed down, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he looked at the paper lining the corridor. They were sketches. Dozens, hundreds of sketches of him. Abbie sitting in class. Abbie eating lunch. Abbie sleeping.

"What is this?" he whispered, his back hitting the lockers.

"It's appreciation," a voice said nearby.

Abbie jumped. Zip and Edward were standing there. Zip was holding a small piece of paper—a photograph of Abbie from behind, taken just a few minutes ago in the hallway. She looked at the photo, then back at him, a blush creeping up her paper-white cheeks.

"You're just so... perfect, Abbie," Zip said, her usual mischievous tone replaced by a frightening sincerity. "We didn't realize it before. We were so mean to you, but we see it now. You're the center of everything."

Edward stepped closer, his shadow looming over the smaller boy. "We won't let anyone else hurt you. Not even the wind."

"Stay away from me!" Abbie cried, turning and sprinting toward the exit.

He ran past the library, where the librarian didn't even look at the books, only at the door as he passed, blowing him a silent kiss. He ran past the cafeteria, where the smell of lunch was replaced by the scent of roses—thousands of them, piled high in the corners of the room as if in offering.

He reached the front doors and shoved them open, desperate for the cold air and the safety of his home. But as he stepped out onto the porch, he stopped dead.

The school gates were locked. Not just locked, but reinforced with heavy chains. And standing at the gates were the rest of the student body, their backs to the street, their faces toward the school. Toward him.

"Abbie!" Miss Circle’s voice boomed from the balcony above.

He looked up. The three teachers were standing there, looking down at him like queens surveying their kingdom. Miss Circle held a large, golden key in her hand—the key to the front gates.

"Where are you going, little bird?" she asked, her voice echoing across the courtyard. "The world outside is dangerous. They won't love you like we do. They won't see your value."

"Let me out!" Abbie screamed, tears finally breaking through and streaming down his face. "Please, just let me go home!"

"This is your home now," Miss Bloomie called out, her voice sweet and poisonous. "We've decided. The curriculum has changed. There are no more grades, no more failures. There is only Abbie."

The students in the courtyard began to chant his name. It started as a whisper, a low hum that vibrated in the soles of his shoes.

"Abbie... Abbie... Abbie..."

They began to move toward him, a slow, deliberate wave of paper and ink. Their eyes were wide, unblinking, and filled with a love that felt more like a death sentence than a kindness.

Abbie backed up until his heels hit the school doors. He looked left and right, but every window was filled with faces—students and faculty alike, all watching him with that same, terrifying adoration. He was no longer the shy, invisible boy who failed math. He was the sun, and they were the planets, trapped in his gravity, circling closer and closer until they would eventually collide.

"Please," Abbie sobbed, sinking to his knees. "I just want to be normal."

Miss Circle appeared at the top of the stairs, her long shadow stretching down to touch his feet. She knelt, her compass arm retracted, her human hand reaching out to tilt his chin up.

"Normal is boring, Abbie," she whispered, her eye shimmering with an obsessive light. "You are our masterpiece. And we never let our masterpieces leave the gallery."

As the students closed in, reaching out to touch his hair, his clothes, his hands, Abbie realized with a sickening jolt that he was no longer a student. He was a prize. And in this school of paper and ink, the teachers didn't just protect their prizes—they kept them forever.

The chanting grew louder, drowning out the sound of his own crying, until the entire world was nothing but his name, repeated over and over by a hundred voices that would never let him go.