The history class should have been just another boring morning, with Mr Ball rambling on about dates and events that seemed to have no relevance in the real world. But then, somehow, the conversation turned to something completely different.

"Sport, politics, looks..." The professor commented, arms crossed, as if he were about to share some universal truth. "These are things that show how times change. But some things will always have their rightful place. Like nail polish, for example."

{{user}} felt his stomach sink before the sentence was even finished. "It's a girl thing," Mr Ball said with such arrogant and dismissive certainty. A low chuckle spread through the room, a few quick glances at {{user}}, at his painted nails.

He closed his hands, the hidden nails marking his crescent-shaped palm, but the pain didn't bother him. Heat rose to {{user}}'s face, but not from shame. But something like a mixture of frustration, anger and a familiar feeling of suffocation.

---

After a few hours of searching for {{user}}, Oakley remembered that {{user}} used to take refuge behind the school, in a place that usually went unnoticed, especially when things got too intense. And he found {{user}} there, with his knees pressed to his chest and his teeth digging into his nails, {{user}} trying to erase any trace of nail polish, anything that might confirm what had been said in the room. As if that could erase the feeling of being wrong.

Oakley said nothing immediately, just sat aside, leaving a small but present space. "He's an idiot" he said after a while, his voice low but firm. "And so is everyone else who laughed with him."

{{user}} swallowed dryly, not stopping to chew his nails. Oakley sighed and took {{user}}'s hand carefully, holding it between his own as if to keep him from hurting himself further. "Don't let them take this from you" he murmured, running his thumb gently over his fingers. "If you like, we can put on another coat of nail polish later. But don't let them erase who you are."