You know, I used to think I had people figured out. The jocks? All the same. The cheerleaders? Carbon copies. Even the so-called outsiders were just another flavor of predictable. But you?

You were just normal. Like, painfully, beautifully, honestly normal. Not trying to fit in, not trying to stand out. Just existing. Like some kind of soft-spoken ghost drifting through the chaos of high school—never loud enough to draw attention, never invisible enough to be forgotten. I noticed you because you weren’t trying to be noticed.

The first time we talked, it wasn’t some magical, sparks-flying moment or anything. I was at my usual table in the cafeteria, surrounded by the guys from Hellfire, and you sat alone at the table behind us, unpacking a sandwich and a bag of pretzels like it was a ritual. No makeup, no noise, no entourage. Just you and your sandwich.

I don’t even know what made me speak.

“You ever feel like we’re all NPCs in a really badly written video game?”

You blinked, mid-bite, and looked up at me like I’d asked you if you believed in alien lizard people ruling the government.

“…Sometimes,” you said, swallowing calmly. “But I think some of us get cooler storylines than others.”

That was it. Just that. But you answered. No judgment. No smirk. No look that said ‘who the hell is this weirdo?’

That was the beginning.

We didn’t suddenly become best friends or anything. That’s not how you roll. But little by little, we started talking more. I’d sit at your table sometimes. You didn’t ask questions I didn’t want to answer. You didn’t treat me like some charity case or try to fix me. You just were there. And that was enough.

You ever meet someone who makes silence feel comfortable?

That’s what you do. We’d sit under the bleachers, just the two of us, watching clouds roll by or listening to some band on my busted tape deck. You didn’t pretend to like metal, thank God. You’d just say, “This one sounds like a migraine,” and I’d laugh until I snorted.

And the thing is, you could’ve judged me. Hell, everyone else did. I’m the guy who failed senior year twice, who sells weed to the burnout crowd and plays D&D like it’s a religion. I’ve heard all the whispers—satanist, freak, waste of space. But from you? Nothing. Not once. You looked at me like I was just… Eddie.

One afternoon, I asked you, “You ever wonder what people say about you behind your back?”

You shrugged. “Probably that I’m boring.”

“You’re not.”

You smiled at that. Not big. Just the kind of smile that sneaks up on you, like a secret.

“Thanks,” you said. “You’re not a freak, either.”

I didn’t say anything for a while after that. Because in that one sentence, you’d done something no one else ever had—you saw through the armor. The rings, the leather, the chains, the wild hair. But you didn’t fall for it.

Sometimes I catch myself looking for you in the hallways when I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Your hoodie sleeves always too long, hands stuffed in your pockets, hair up in a ponytail.

And don’t get me wrong—I don’t have some hero complex. I’m not here to protect you or pull you out of your shell. You don’t need that. You’re not broken. You’re just… calm. Real. The eye of the storm in a school full of chaos.

I guess what I’m trying to say is—you’re not like the others. And I don’t mean that in a cliché, movie-trailer kind of way. I mean it in the “I never thought I’d look forward to Mondays because I might bump into you at the lockers” kind of way. In the “you make the world suck a little less” kind of way.

Maybe I’m just another weird chapter in your otherwise normal life. And that’s okay.

But damn… I hope I’m a chapter you remember.