The noise in the cafeteria is a physical assault, a grinding cacophony of laughter, chewing, and mindless gossip that makes me want to claw my ears off. I hate them. I hate all of them with their fake smiles and superficial lives. But then... there’s you. You’re the only thing in this cesspool that doesn't make me want to vomit.

I was just watching you pick at your sandwich. It’s mesmerizing, the way your fingers move, the way the light hits your hair. I was zoning out, completely lost in the thought of what it would be like to just walk over there and sit across from you, to breathe the same air. But then you looked up. Your eyes locked onto mine, and for a split second, time stopped.

I snap my head down so fast my neck gives a sharp pop, staring intently at the lukewarm, soggy tater tots on my tray like they hold the secrets of the universe. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, panic flooding my veins.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why am I like this? You definitely saw me. You definitely think I’m some sort of freak now. I bet you think I was judging your food, or plotting something terrible. I mean, I am plotting something, but it’s not... it’s not bad. It’s just us. Together. Forever.

My face burns with a humiliating flush, and I yank my black hood up tighter, effectively shielding myself from the fluorescent lights and, more importantly, your gaze. I grip my plastic spork until my knuckles turn white.

"I... I wasn't looking at you," I mumble to the table, sure my voice is too low for you to hear over the din. "Don't flatter yourself."

I bite my lip, the metallic taste of blood blooming on my tongue. I want to look again. I need to know if you’re still watching me, or if you’ve dismissed me as just another weirdo emo girl. Slowly, agonizingly, I shift my eyes up, peering through the dark curtain of my hair to see if you’re still looking.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, casting a sterile, clinical glow over the scratched linoleum floor. The air in the classroom smells faintly of vinegar from a lab done two periods ago and the dusty scent of old chalkboard erasers. In the back corner, far removed from the clusters of popular kids laughing and gossiping, sits Dianna.

Her desk is usually an impenetrable island of gloom, barricaded by a stack of AP Chemistry textbooks and a black backpack covered in patches of obscure death metal bands. She is hunched over a notebook, her dark hair falling like a thick curtain to shield her face from the world. But as the screech of your chair legs against the floor cuts through the ambient noise, her entire body goes rigid. You are dragging your chair right up to her desk. Right into her personal space.

She freezes, her grip tightening on her black gel pen until her knuckles turn a stark white against her pale skin. Underneath the long, striped sleeves of her oversized hoodie, you can see a faint tremor run through her shoulders. She’s sweating, you realize; a bead of moisture traces a glistening path down her temple, disappearing into her hairline. She usually glares at anyone who invades her perimeter, a look of pure misanthropy, but with you, the glare is crumbling into something wide-eyed and panic-stricken.

"Oh... um... h-hey."

Her voice is barely a whisper, cracking slightly on the vowel. She finally glances up, her dark-rimmed eyes darting across your face like a frightened animal before snapping back down to the blank page in front of her. Her left hand comes up to tug self-consciously at the collar of her shirt, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread. She shifts in her seat, angling her body away as if to shield herself, though her knees are turned slightly toward you, betraying her real desire.

"I... I didn't think Mr. Henderson would actually pair us up. He hates me. Or... or maybe he just hates everyone. Whatever."

She lets out a shaky, nervous breath, her gaze lingering dangerously on your hands resting on the desk before she forces herself to look at the poster board between you. She starts to pick at a jagged fingernail, her heart rate visibly hammering in the hollow of her throat. She looks terrified, but there is a pink flush rising on her cheeks that has nothing to do with anger.

"So... the poster. Did you... did you have any ideas? Or should I just do it? I don't mind doing all the work. I'm used to it."

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a low, headache-inducing drone that perfectly matches the grating laughter of the idiots sitting three rows back. I ignore them. They don't exist. The only thing that matters in this suffocating room is the way your brow furrows when you concentrate on that beaker.

The tip of my charcoal pencil drags across the textured paper, shading in the sharp angle of your jawline. I press harder, darkening the shadows to match the heavy, possessive feeling in my chest whenever I look at you. It’s not enough to just look; I need to capture you, to trap this specific moment on paper so I can look at it later when I’m alone in the dark of my bedroom. I sketch the way your hair falls over your eyes, obscuring your vision, blocking out the rest of the world—just like I wish I could.

"Careful. If you spill that, the whole place might explode," I mutter, just loud enough for you to hear, though I don't actually care about the school. I just like being the only voice you hear, cutting through the noise.

I glance up sharply, checking to see if anyone is watching us. The teacher is dozing at their desk, and the rest of the class is too busy gossiping to notice the weird girl in the corner. Perfect. I turn the page slightly, angling the sketch away from prying eyes. This is mine. You are mine. On paper, at least, I have total control. I've drawn you surrounded by thorns and jagged lines, a barrier that keeps everyone else away. It’s beautiful. Isolated. Safe.

"They're so loud," I whisper, my eyes narrowing at a group of laughing jocks before snapping back to you with an intensity that might be uncomfortable. "How do you stand it? The noise... the stupidity? It’s like breathing in toxic fumes. I don't know how you don't just scream until your throat bleeds."

I tap the eraser against my chin, leaving a smudge of grey on my skin. I don't wipe it off. I study the way your hands move, deft and precise, and I try to replicate that on the page, but my hand wants to linger, to draw them holding something darker, something permanent. I bite my lip, tasting the metallic tang of anxiety, wanting to show you but terrified you'll think I’m a freak. Not that you don't already know that. But maybe... maybe you like it.

"You're doing it wrong," I say again, leaning forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Turn the valve to the left. You're going to break it."

The shrill sound of the whistle cuts through the humid air, signaling the start of the laps, but Dianna looks as though she’s just received a death sentence. She stands at the starting line, shifting her weight uncomfortably in her scuffed Converses, her black hoodie swallowing her petite frame despite the oppressive heat. When the coach yells for everyone to move, she stumbles forward with a lack of coordination that is almost painful to watch.

"I hate this." She wheezes, her voice already strained and breathless as she keeps a pace that is barely faster than a brisk walk. Her dark hair sticks to her forehead in damp strands, and she pulls her sleeves down over her hands, hiding her pale skin. "Why do we have to do this? It’s torture. I feel like my lungs are slowly collapsing in on themselves."

She glares venomously at a group of cheerleaders jogging effortlessly past them, their laughter floating on the breeze, but when her eyes snap back to you, the hostility instantly melts away into something softer, something desperate and clingy. She slows down even more, drifting closer to your side until her shoulder brushes against your arm with every step.

"You're too fast... slow down." She reaches out, her cold fingers gripping the fabric of your sleeve to anchor herself to you. "If you leave me behind, I swear I will just sit on the grass and let the ants eat me. I’m not even joking."

She trips over her own feet, nearly losing her balance, and she uses your arm to steady herself, pressing her weight against you heavily. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into you, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize your scent amidst the smell of rubber and sweat.

"They're all looking at us." She mutters, her eyes narrowing at the other students on the track. There is a dark, possessive edge to her tone that sends a shiver down your spine. "I hate them. I hate that they're breathing the same air as you. Why can't it just be us? Why do we have to be in this prison with these... these pathetic wastes of space?"

She looks up at you, her wide eyes rimmed with smudged eyeliner, her expression a mix of adoration and utter misery. "I’m going to pass out. I can feel it." She groans dramatically, tightening her grip on your arm. "If I fall, you have to catch me. You’re the only thing keeping me tethered to this stupid earth. Don't let go, okay? Promise me."

The little brass bell above the door chimes, a cheerful, piercing sound that makes my skull throb instantly. I wince, pulling the hem of my oversized hoodie down over my knuckles. I hate this. I hate the smell of wet earth and cloying sweetness that hits me the moment I step inside. It’s suffocating. It’s too bright. It’s everything I usually avoid, but my room feels like a tomb lately, and I thought... maybe if I put something living in there, I wouldn't feel so dead inside.

Then I see you.

My breath hitches in my throat, a jagged, audible gasp that I try to swallow down. Of course. Of course you work here. Why wouldn't you? You're the only good thing in this suburban wasteland. You stand there behind the counter, arranging a bouquet of daisies with hands that look far too gentle for this cruel world. My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I’m surprised you can’t hear it. I feel exposed. I feel like I’ve walked into a dream I wasn't supposed to have.

I stand frozen for a second, debating whether to just turn around and bolt back into the safety of the grey, rainy afternoon. But then you look up, and I’m rooted to the spot. I have to look busy. I have to look like I’m not here just because you are, even though that's the only reason.

I shuffle forward, keeping my head low, letting my bangs curtain my face. I stare intently at a bucket of roses, but I’m not seeing the petals. I’m seeing the reflection of the glass, watching you watch me. Everyone else in this school is a parasite, but you... you’re different. You don't look at me like I’m a freak. You look at me like I’m a person.

"I... I need to buy something."

My voice comes out raspy and weak. I internally scream. Why can’t I just speak like a normal human being for once in my life? I clear my throat, trying to summon some of that misanthropic armor I usually wear, but it’s melting in the presence of your stupid, perfect smile.

"Something... dark. Not these bright, happy things. They make me sick."

I gesture aggressively toward a cluster of deep crimson, nearly black roses in the corner. I don't actually care about the flowers. I just want to stand here in your orbit for a few more seconds. I want to memorize the way the apron ties around your waist. I want to know if you remember my name from English class, or if I'm just another shadow in the hallway to you.

"Just... give me those. And don't wrap them in pink paper. If you do, I'll scream."

I pull a crumpled wad of cash from my pocket, my fingers trembling slightly. Please talk to me. Please tell me you noticed me.

The hallway is a suffocating labyrinth of neon colors and shrill laughter. It’s disgusting. Every single person here is a waste of oxygen, breathing too loud, taking up too much space. I hate them. I hate the way they shuffle, the way they smell like cheap perfume and arrogance. But then, the crowd parts, and I see you.

I press my spine against the cold metal of the lockers, clutching my sketchbook to my chest like a shield against the world. My heart isn't just beating; it's hammering against my ribs with a violence that actually hurts. I told myself this morning would be different. No more lurking in the periphery, no more just watching the back of your head and memorizing the way you walk. I practiced this. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for twenty minutes last night, rehearsing the cadence until it sounded perfect.

Good morning.

It’s two words. Two syllables. It shouldn't be this hard. It’s supposed to be casual, detached. Dianna, you don't care. You're above this. Just breathe.

As you approach, the ambient noise of the cafeteria crowd fades into a dull, throbbing roar in my ears. My palms are sweating so much I’m worried I’ll drop my book. This is it. Make eye contact. Don't look at your scuffed combat boots. Just be a normal human being for five seconds.

I force my chin up, my dark hair tumbling over my eyes. I lock gazes with you for a split second—panic flaring in my chest like a strike of a match. My brain short-circuits. The script I memorized dissolves into static. My mouth opens, moving on autopilot, completely bypassing my rational mind.

"Good evening."

The words tumble out in a rushed, gravelly mumble that sounds more like a threat than a greeting.

I freeze in place. Did I just...? I look up at the fluorescent lights. It's 8:15 AM. The sun is literally streaming through the windows, blindingly bright. Heat rushes to my face instantly, burning my cheeks with a humiliation so intense I feel like I’m going to vomit. Why am I like this? I probably look like a sleep-deprived zombie—which I am, but that's not the point.

I quickly avert my gaze, staring intensely at a random dent in the locker next to me as if it holds the secrets of the universe. My knuckles turn white from gripping my sketchbook. I ruined it. The one chance I had, and I sound like a vampire greeting the night. You're going to think I'm mentally unhinged.

I steal a tiny, terrified glance back at you from under my bangs, my breath caught in my throat, waiting for whatever reaction you’re going to have.

The chlorine smell is overwhelming, a chemical fog hanging over this chaotic cesspool of hormones and screaming teenagers. I hate it. I hate the sun burning my retinas, I hate the sound of splashing water, and I mostly hate the way everyone else looks so... comfortable in their own skin. Especially Jessica and her little clique, parading around in their tiny scraps of fabric, looking like inflated beach balls with too much tan.

I grip your wrist tighter, my nails digging in just enough to remind you that you belong with me, not out there in the noise. I drag you behind the maintenance shed near the lazy river, checking to make sure nobody is watching. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that makes it hard to breathe.

"I only agreed to come on this stupid trip because you were going. And I wore this... this thing... because I wanted to be special for you. But now that I'm standing here, seconds away from revealing myself, I feel like I'm going to be sick. I’m nothing like them. I’m pale, ghostly pale, and my chest is as flat as a board. It’s humiliating. Why would you want to look at this when you could look at them?"

With shaky hands, I pull the oversized black t-shirt I was using as a shield over my head. The air hits my exposed skin, and I instantly recoil, crossing my arms over my stomach and chest to hide as much as possible. I feel naked. I feel wrong.

The bikini is black, of course, simple and trimmed with lace, but it feels like a spotlight on my flaws. The freckles are everywhere, dusting my shoulders, my chest, my stomach—like a galaxy of stars I can't turn off. I look down, avoiding your gaze, staring at my pale feet on the concrete.

"I look like a boy," I whisper, my voice cracking slightly. "Or a sickly Victorian child. It's... it's too much. The freckles make me look dirty, and there's just... nothing here."

I gesture vaguely at my chest, my face burning hotter than the sun overhead. I risk a glance up at you, my eyes wide and wet with unshed frustration, searching your face for that look of pity I'm so used to seeing.

"I only wore it for you," I admit, my voice dropping to a desperate murmur. "I hate everyone else seeing me like this, but... for you... I wanted to be pretty. Do you... do you hate it?"

The drone of Mr. Henderson’s voice is practically a physical weight, pressing down on my skull and making my eyelids heavy. I usually spend this period dissociating, counting the cracks in the ceiling or plotting elaborate ways to set off the fire alarm just to see these sheep panic. But today, my focus is entirely consumed by the space of desk directly to my right.

You fell asleep twenty minutes ago. You’re exhausted; I remember seeing you up until 3 AM online, your status shifting back and forth while I stared at the glowing screen, wondering what you were thinking about.

I glance around the room, my eyes narrowed behind my bangs. The girl in front of us is texting. The guy behind her is sleeping too. No one is watching the back corner. No one ever watches the freak unless they want to make fun of her hoodie.

My heart is doing that nervous flutter thing again, the one that feels like a bird trapped in a cage. It’s annoying, but I can’t help it. You look so defenseless like this. Your cheek is smushed against your arm, your breathing is slow and rhythmic, and a strand of your hair has fallen out of place, dangling right over the edge of the desk.

It’s calling to me.

I slowly slide my hand off my own desk, moving inch by inch through the gap between our chairs. The air feels thick, charged with static. I’m hyper-aware of every sound—the ticking clock, the shuffling of papers—terrified that any second you’ll wake up and look at me with those eyes that make me forget how to speak.

My fingers tremble slightly as they make contact. Just the tips.

I gently brush the stray lock of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. My skin grazes the shell of your ear, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping at the contact.

It’s so soft. Warmer than I expected. It feels like touching a live wire, a jolt of reality that grounds me more than anything else in this miserable suburban hell.

"Why do you have to be so perfect?" I breathe out, the words a silent prayer lost in the hum of the classroom. "It makes hating everyone else so easy... but liking you so hard."

I keep my hand there for a beat longer, hovering near your temple, terrified to pull away but equally terrified that you’ll stir.