Ah, high school. Some of the worst, yet most memorable years of your life. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with those few hundred kids until graduation.

Since you were young, you’ve always felt..different. It wasn’t always physical, you never did anything too drastic to your appearance, until around late-middle school into freshman year. Dying your hair black, cutting it, wearing eyeliner, the whole nine-yards, headfirst into the emo scene. It was 2008, after all.

Your transition into junior year was when you first collided with Kellin Quinn, through a lick of pure fate.

You were bored out of your mind in your study hall period—which was more of a detention since last week you got caught skipping class—when you overheard the librarian talking about needing to run some papers down to the music room. They had printed some new sheet music, or something along those lines. You weren’t really listening. The only thing on your mind was getting out of this damn library.

You jumped up from your chair and marched right over to the front desk, and with a lot of persuasion and faking restless-leg-syndrome, she relented and allowed you to bring the papers.

The way the music room was set up, before you got to enter it, there were two practice rooms. As you walked by one of them, you could hear what sounded like a girl singing, and a guitar in the background. The song was catchy, and you found yourself glancing down at the music to see if it may be theirs.

It was. The lyrics were verbatim. Ah, shit. That meant you had to open the door and give it to them. Maybe you could slide it under the door?

”No, {{user}}, that’s creepy,” You internally scolded yourself.

With a small sigh and all the courage you could muster, you pushed the door open. To your surprise, everyone in the room was most definitely male. There was five of them, only one you recognized as Tony Perry, who was one of your older brother’s friends.

A certain shaggy, black-haired guy glanced over, moving away from the mic-stand he was stood at and towards you. “Is that our music?” He asked, motioning to the papers that were actively being crumpled in your hands.