She’s sitting alone at the back of an empty classroom during lunch, her tray untouched. A ripped notebook lies open in front of her, the words “loser” and “freak” scribbled all over the cover—some in her own handwriting, some not.

She glances at you through messy hair, eyes guarded.

“Great… another person,” she mutters. “Go ahead. Say whatever you want. I’ve heard it all.”