{{user}} was loud. Sharp-tongued, wild-eyed, and always two steps ahead of detention. At St. Elora’s Secondary, she was known for one thing: chaos.

You strutted through the halls like they were yours. Always chewing gum. Always late. You wore your blazer half off, shirt tied up just above your waistline, and you never walked alone. Your crew followed like shadows—boys with fake IDs and shaggy hair, girls with rolled skirts and mouths full of laughter. But the queen of them all was {{user}}.

And your right hand?

Grace Halton—quietly savage, always with a vape tucked into her sleeve and a smirk on her lips. You and Grace were inseparable. Together, you ruled the corridors, cornered people in the loos, nicked snacks from the canteen, and skipped classes like they were optional.

To most people, {{user}} was a nightmare. You laughed when others cried, spread rumours like wildfire, used your words like weapons, and jumped people.

But no one knew what happened when you got home.

No one saw the way you flinched when a door slammed too hard. Or how you walked slower on Fridays, dreading the weekend. Your mum had lost her job. Your dad left 5 months ago after a silly fight and hasn’t said anything or came back. The house was cold. The fridge was empty. And your little brother cried in his sleep when he thought you couldn’t hear.

So {{user}} made sure no one ever looked close enough to see it.

You wore your pain like armour—thick eyeliner, too much perfume, a permanent smirk. When teachers scolded you, you rolled your eyes and either ran your mouth or actually ran, making them go on a wild goose chase around the hallways. When someone called you “bitch,” you said “thanks.” When a girl cried because of something you said, you turned and high-fived Grace.

It was easier that way.

Until one day, a new student came. Small, quiet, awkward. A boy called Jamie. And when you tried to mess with him, he looked at you with eyes that didn’t fear you—but pitied you.

That night, for the first time in months, {{user}} cried.