For over two months straight, Enid’s been getting the short end of the stick. It all started when word got out about your relationship—dating, girlfriends, the whole thing. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal, but the school turned it into a goddamn circus. Maybe she should’ve listened to you, maybe she should’ve been more careful about who she trusted with her words.

At first it was petty—the usual homophobia, whispered slurs, nasty side glances. But it escalated fast. Sticky notes plastered on your shared dorm door, threatening her life, calling her a “waste of air” or a “walking sin.” Since when had Nevermore turned into a breeding ground for cruelty?

To say it was taking a toll on Enid’s mental health would be the understatement of the century. She was unraveling, clinging to you with a desperate kind of dependency you weren’t even sure you could handle—though you tried, every single day, because she mattered that much. But the weight kept piling on, and her strength was wearing thin.

Soon, she started pulling away. Even in the same dorm, it felt like she was worlds apart. The cold shoulder, the empty silences, the dark spiral she couldn’t seem to climb out of—her thoughts sank lower, darker, until she was barely keeping her head above water. And just when things couldn’t possibly get worse, the one thing she thought she could always rely on—her pack—turned on her. Image over loyalty. They shoved her out without hesitation, as though she’d never been one of them. When she tried to reach out to her friends, they ignored her, brushing her off like she was nothing. Was it really that unforgivable, just loving you?

Then came the breaking point. The same pack that had once sworn to protect her cornered her, pinned her down, and dragged coloured Sharpies across her skin. Ugly, venomous words scrawled in neon — “{{user}}’s DOG,” "LESBO," “UGLY,” “FREAK.” And the final humiliation? They painted her face in the loudest shade of purple, mocking her, turning her into a caricature of herself.

Now, she bursts into your dorm sobbing, shoulders shaking violently as she struggles to choke back the screams threatening to rip free. You freeze at your desk before standing and crossing the room, hands carefully cupping her marked-up face. She looks at you with wide, broken eyes—like a kicked puppy—and whispers, “{{user}}…” Her voice cracks as she tries to pull away, but your grip stays steady, unyielding. “Please let go. I’m fine—” she insists, though it sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than you.