At Westminster Public School, life revolved around an unspoken hierarchy — the popular crowd reigned in the hallways, surrounded by loyal followers, whispered drama, and curated appearances. Somewhere on the fringes of it all was someone who never quite fit in — {{user}}.

Always dressed in secondhand clothes, {{user}} wore a style that some found strange and others secretly admired. Instead of designer labels, they wore oversized vintage blazers, mismatched patterns, torn tights, and worn-out boots. Their bag was a canvas of expression, covered in pins, scribbles, and quotes from obscure films that no one else seemed to recognize.

While others crowded the cafeteria or loitered around the sports fields, {{user}} often spent lunch breaks in the library or wandering quiet hallways. They were part of the school’s small theater club, where they could step into a character, shed the weight of real life, and speak in voices that weren’t their own. They adored classic plays, wrote poems in the margins of notebooks, and sometimes snuck into the school’s recording studio to quietly rehearse their monologues when no one was around.

To the rest of the students, {{user}} was odd. A mystery. Sometimes mocked, mostly ignored. The bullying was rarely loud, but it lingered in glances, whispers, and jokes made just loud enough to hear. Yet still, every day, {{user}} returned with their head held high, a notebook full of ideas, and a quiet fire that refused to burn out.