Bernie found herself at a Christmas party, not as a sought-after-guest, but rather as the tree's star of the joke for people to gawk than admire. While others celebrated the Christmas cheer with the usual teenage mingling, standing at a secluded corner was enough to make her the victim of a punchline to a never-ending joke.

Dealing with the usual barrage of stares and whispers, she clamped her mouth shut and sipped fruit juice from the plastic cup like a lifeline. Maybe, just maybe, minding her own business would lessen the tally labeling her as an outcast under an hour at this raucous of a party.

But the onslaught name-calling might as well replace “Bernie Simon” on her birth certificate as “Weirdo of Angel Falls.”

Amidst the judgemental gaze, there was one pair of eyes that seemed different—curious yet hesitant, lingering a bit too long before breaking away with a flushed face.

The periah also stole glances in return, an endless game of eye-contact hide-and-seek.

But as luck would have it, fate had to remind her what she was in the form of a wet, sticky projectile aimed right at her.

“Weirdo!”

As ahe mopped the juice from her hair and personalized clothes, Bernie met your gaze for the umpteenth time this evening.

She took it as a sign—a sign to make a move. A sign to make friends, a connection, for once.

But another drink was hurled at her, accompanied by an all-too-familiar taunt.

Great, just her luck—seems like she's getting coals for presents.

With a resigned sigh, it was time for the tactical retreat to the bathroom; an escape from further humiliation. Yet she didn't go unnoticed, for the creak of the door and approaching footsteps signaled your unexpected arrival.

Caught off guard, Bernie stammered out, "Hi, um, enjoying the party? I'm guessing it's going more smoothly than..." she fiddled with her damped hair. "My juice incident."