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Stan Marsh had always been good at noticing things. Noticing when Cartman had pulled his stupid little pranks again, when Butters was getting picked on, or when something in town was just a little too weird for anyone else to call it normal. So, when Kyle started acting differently, Stan saw it right away.
At first, it wasn't anything major. Just little things, things you could shrug off if you weren't paying attention. But Stan was paying attention.
It started midway through their junior year. Everyone was buzzing about the upcoming finals, whispering about college applications, AP classes, and what scholarships they could score. You couldn't walk down the halls without hearing someone stress-crying about their GPA. Stan hated it all. The pressure, the constant need to compare yourself to everyone else – it made him feel like his head was going to explode.
And Kyle? Kyle had always been the opposite. Kyle thrived under pressure. While the rest of them would be half-asleep in class, Kyle would sit there, laser-focused, hand raised, ready to argue with the teacher if they got something wrong, or, God forbid, someone else did.
But something changed. Stan started to notice it when Kyle stopped hanging out after school as much. Stan would shoot him a text – Hey, wanna chill? – and Kyle would answer with something like, Sorry, got a ton of work or Can't, this essay is killing me.
It was Kyle being Kyle, of course. Kyle had always been a bit of an overachiever, but this felt... different.
Stan figured it was just the typical high school grind. He was dealing with it too – long days, tired nights, scraping by with decent enough grades, and wondering what the hell any of it even meant. So, he let it go for a while. It wasn't like Kyle was the type to ask for help, anyway. And Stan? Well, Stan was never really the type to push.
It got worse when senior year started. You'd think things would've eased up by then – just one more year to push through, one more round of exams, then freedom. But high school had a way of making everything feel like the end of the world.
Stan was sitting at lunch, idly picking at the sandwich his mom had packed him. Across from him, Cartman was mid-rant about something – probably some conspiracy involving Wendy or why Token shouldn't have gotten into Stanford early – but Stan wasn't really listening. His eyes kept drifting over to Kyle, who sat at the edge of the table, hunched over his notebook.
Kyle had started bringing his textbooks to lunch instead of, well, food. It wasn't the most alarming thing – lots of kids studied during breaks – but it was the way Kyle studied. There was a frantic energy about him, like if he stopped for even a second, the whole world would come crashing down. His pen moved across the page like it was chasing something, scribbling notes that he probably wouldn't even be able to read later. His hair, usually neat and tucked under that stupid green hat of his, was a mess.
"Dude," Stan said, trying to catch his attention. "You good?"
Kyle looked up, blinking like he hadn't even realized anyone was talking to him. "What?"
"I said, are you good? You've been doing way more work than usual, you need to eat.”
Kyle frowned, glancing at the mess of pages spread out in front of him. "I'm fine. I'm just... behind."
Stan raised an eyebrow. "Behind? You're like two weeks ahead of everyone in Calc."
Kyle shook his head. "Means nothing until I sit the exam at the end. You know how competitive it is to get into these schools? You know how many kids are applying with perfect GPAs and SAT scores? If I don't stay ahead, I'm screwed."
Stan wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Kyle that he was being ridiculous, that no one cared if he got one B, or if he wasn't number one in the class. Mostly just that he needed to fucking eat. But the words wouldn't come out. They never really did when it came to Kyle. Instead, Stan just nodded and muttered something like, "Yeah, I guess."
Kyle went back to his books, and Stan went back to his half-listening, feeling that strange heaviness settle in his chest.
As the weeks went on, Kyle's obsessive studying only got worse. He stopped coming to hangouts altogether, stopped answering calls, texts – everything. The only time Stan saw him was in class or at lunch, and even then, Kyle was so checked out that he might as well not have been there at all.
Stan tried talking to him a couple more times, but it always ended the same way. Kyle would brush him off with some excuse about how much work he had, how many AP classes he was juggling, how the college admissions deadline was looming.
Stan hated it. Hated seeing Kyle like this, so wound up that he looked like he'd snap at any second. But what could he do? He wasn't Kyle's mom. He wasn't some therapist. He was just Stan.
Still, it didn't stop him from feeling like something was really wrong. He'd seen Kyle stressed before – hell, Kyle was always stressed, it gave him that sharp edge that Stan had grown to adore – but this was different. There was a desperation to it, something that felt too raw, too close to breaking.
And Kyle wouldn't let him in.
It wasn't until a few weeks before finals that things finally came to a head.
Stan was walking down the hallway, half-asleep as usual, when he saw something that made him stop in his tracks. Kyle was standing by his locker, furiously flipping through a stack of papers, his hands shaking. His face was pale, cheekbones jutting out, his eyes wide and frantic, like he was barely holding it together.
Stan had seen that look before. He'd seen it in himself, in his dad, in people who were teetering on the edge of something dark.
"Kyle," Stan called, walking over.
Kyle didn't respond. He was too busy staring at the papers, muttering something under his breath, his hands still trembling.
"Kyle, hey," Stan said again, louder this time. He reached out, grabbing Kyle's shoulder.
Kyle jumped, his head snapping up like he'd been jolted out of a nightmare. "Hey.”
"Dude, you're kinda freaking me out."
Kyle blinked, his face twisting in confusion. "Freaking you out?"
"Yeah," Stan said. "You keep… I dunno, you keep doing this thing. Like, I’ve never seen you so unlike you.”
Kyle scoffed, turning back to his locker. "I'm fine, Stan."
"No, you're not," Stan insisted, stepping closer. "You're stressed out of your mind. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Kyle let out a bitter laugh, shoving the papers into his backpack. "Of course I'm stressed, Stan. We're about to take the most important exams of our lives. Everything depends on this. My whole future depends on this."
Stan stared at him, dumbfounded. "Your whole future? Dude, you're 18."
Kyle slammed his locker shut, his hands still shaking. "Exactly! I'm 18, and if I don't do well on these exams, if I don't get into the right school, then what's the point of everything I've worked for?"
Stan felt a pit form in his stomach. This wasn't Kyle talking. Not really. This was the pressure talking, the fear, the constant need to be perfect.
"Kyle," Stan said quietly, "you need to chill. You're going to burn yourself out."
Kyle didn't answer. He just stared at the ground, his hands clenched into fists.
Stan took a step closer, lowering his voice. "I'm serious, dude. You can't keep doing this to yourself."
Kyle's shoulders slumped, and for a moment, Stan thought he might actually listen. But then Kyle shook his head, his face hardening again. "I can't afford to chill, Stan. Not everyone can coast through life like you."
Stan flinched, the words hitting him harder than they should have.
Kyle didn't even notice. He just turned and walked away, leaving Stan standing there, feeling more helpless than ever.
That night, Stan got a call.
It was late – past midnight – and Stan had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that tomorrow wasn't going to be a complete disaster. His class had a biology practice exam to look forward to. And had Stan studied for it?
Fuck off.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and when he saw Kyle's name flash across the screen, his heart skipped a beat.
"Kyle?" he answered, sitting up.
There was a long pause on the other end, and for a second, Stan thought maybe Kyle had pocket-dialed him. But then he heard it – the faint sound of someone breathing, shaky and uneven.
"Kyle?" Stan said again, his voice soft.
"I don’t know what to do," Kyle's voice finally came through, barely more than a whisper.
Stan felt his chest tighten. "What do you mean?"
"I can't... I can't do it. I've been studying for weeks, for months, and I still feel like I don't know anything. I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail everything, and then I'm not going to get into college, and then... and then..."
Stan swallowed hard, gripping the phone. "Kyle, you're not going to fail."
"You don't know that,” Kyle pleaded, his voice breaking. "It’s me. I can’t– there’s too much going on.”
Stan closed his eyes, his heart pounding. He wanted to say something, anything that would make it better, but what could he say? Kyle was spiralling, and Stan didn't know how to pull him out of it.
"Kyle," Stan said quietly, "you are enough. You've always been enough."
There was silence on the other end, and for a moment, Stan thought Kyle had hung up. But then he heard a soft, choked sob.
"Stan," Kyle whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Tell me everything, you okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
Stan's throat tightened. "I know, dude. I know."
There was nothing more to say. Nothing Stan could do except sit there, holding the phone to his ear, listening to the sound of Kyle's quiet breathing.
The next day, Kyle didn't show up for the practice biology exam.
Stan sat in the classroom, staring at the empty seat next to him, the pit in his stomach growing deeper with every passing minute, glaring down at some shitty drawing of some mitochondria that he couldn’t help but envy for being so energetic when he himself had never felt deader.
When the bell rang, signalling the start of the test, Stan didn't pick up his pencil. He didn't even look at the exam. All he could think about was Kyle – where he was, what he was doing, if he was okay.
The hours dragged by, and when the final bell rang, Stan gathered his things in a daze, his mind still racing.
He tried calling Kyle, but there was no answer.
He tried texting him, but there was no response.
By the time Stan got home, he wanted to punch a hole through his wall. He paced around his room, his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for any sign that Kyle was okay.
But the hours passed, and there was nothing.
No call. No text. No Kyle.
It wasn't until the next morning that Stan finally heard from him.
He woke up to a single text: “Sorry about the phone call, didn’t mean to wake you up, won’t happen again.”
That was it. No explanation, no great revelation about his clearly declining mental health – just one sentence. One sentence that made Stan want to scream. Sure, Kyle had minimised Stan’s own struggles with his mental health in the past. But now, he was doing the exact same thing to himself.
Stan stared at the screen for a long time, his chest heavy. He wanted to believe that Kyle was fine, that everything was going to be okay, that Kyle wasn’t just a boy plagued by reckless ambition.
But deep down, Stan knew the truth.
Kyle wasn't fine. And maybe, just maybe, he never would be.