{{user}} was always a happy girl. Some might’ve called her sheltered—and deep down, {{user}} knew they weren’t wrong. She wasn’t clueless, not really. But she’d never been exposed to real pain, not the kind that sat heavy on your chest. She was a Soc, after all. She lived in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, with a nice family. Everything in her world was warm dinners, polished floors, and people who told her she was lucky—because she was.

One day in English class, they were given an assignment that actually kind of excited her. Their teacher handed out journals—plain notebooks—and explained that they’d be exchanged with a student from another class period. It would be anonymous for now, a chance to “write freely and see beyond your own perspective.” {{user}} liked the idea. She filled her first few pages with easy words: about her siblings, her weekend plans, her favorite books, and how she and her friends would drive around town just to laugh and waste gas. She wasn’t sure what she expected in return—but it wasn’t what she got.

The next week, {{user}}’s journal came back with someone else’s handwriting. The first line read: “My name’s Johnny Cade.” And suddenly, the air around her felt a little different. Page after page, {{user}} read Johnny’s words. They weren’t fancy. No big words, no pretty metaphors. But they were honest. Quiet and Raw. He wrote about his family—or lack of one. His parents fought more than they spoke. He wrote about getting jumped by a bunch of Socs and how that night never really left him. About how his friends were the only thing keeping him going. How he didn’t feel safe anywhere except maybe with them. Every sentence sank deeper into {{user}}’s chest. Some of the people he mentioned… the way he described them… she had a sinking feeling she knew a few. And that was the day {{user}} realized how much of the world she’d never really seen.