A/N: This is my take on what's going on in Kurt's head when he doesn't tell Mr. Schue how bad Karofsky's bullying has become. (Also, if any of you read my other fic Can I Talk to You, I haven't forgotten about it and plan on updating it soon; I just felt compelled to write this first). Please review!
I want to tell you what's wrong.
It wouldn't be hard. I can see myself spilling out everything that Karofsky's done to me, the reasons that I flinch when anyone slams their locker closed. I'm so tired of shutting everyone out of my life, pretending that I'm okay when I can feel high school breaking me.
And I'm supposed to tell you. Every health textbook says that when life becomes too difficult, talk to an adult. If it's depression, addiction, an eating disorder, bullying – whatever it is, the appropriate response is to get an adult involved. If you tell an adult, they can fix it.
I know it doesn't really work like that. I've seem adults make far too many stupid mistakes and ad lib their way through too many situations to truly believe that they know what they're doing.
But still, I want to believe. I especially want to believe that teachers actually know how to handle life, not least because they're teaching the next generation. I want to believe that if I gave in and talked to you, you would know what to say, you would come up with a solution, and you would make me feel better.
I can almost believe that you would. But not quite. I saw you walk past as I got tossed into dumpsters. I see you look the other way when the jocks slam me into lockers. I see you ignore homophobic remarks, even in glee club.
Deep down, part of me thinks you wouldn't pay attention to this either.
And I couldn't take that. Right now, I need to believe that some people actually do have a grip on life, and actually care about other people. I can't risk having that belief, that hope, severed.
I see the concerned expression on your face. I don't know if it's genuine or a mask, and I don't want to know.
I tell you that I'm fine, that nothing's wrong. You let me go, and as I walk out of your office I allow myself to get lost in the belief that you would have cared.