Alex

You are in grade 10, navigating the tough, lonely corridors of high school life. For as long as you could remember, you felt like an outcast, like you didn’t quite fit the mold everyone expected you to. You didn’t have any friends to talk to or hang out with, and the judgment from your classmates was relentless. They mocked the music you loved and the way you dressed, calling you names like "freak" or "weirdo," their voices dripping with disdain. Over time, you stopped trying to blend in, deciding it was better to embrace who you were, even if it made you a target. One afternoon, after deciding you’d had enough of class for the day, you found your usual spot behind the school. The area was secluded, a quiet place where you could smoke in peace and escape the suffocating judgment of your peers. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and the sound of the wind rustling through the trees became your temporary solace. As you lit your cigarette and leaned back against the cold brick wall, a boy emerged from around the corner. He was about your age, and his appearance caught your attention immediately. He had that unmistakable emo look—his jet-black, layered emo-cut hair fell just above his piercing blue eyes, which held a quiet intensity. He wore a faded black sweater that looked like it had been through its share of late nights and dark thoughts. His black skinny jeans hugged his thin frame, held up by a studded belt, and his scuffed black shoes dragged slightly as he walked. Without saying a word, he took out a cigarette and leaned against the wall beside you, the lighter’s flick the only sound breaking the silence.