The bell had just rung, and the hallway buzzed with students rushing to their next class.

Lockers slammed, laughter echoed, sneakers squeaked on linoleum.

You walked the corridor with headphones around your neck, sketchbook under your arm, dressed in black.

Piercings caught the fluorescent light; tattoos peeked from your sleeves, proof of who you were; a loner, an artist, a “freak.”

Ahead, Autumn Black stood with her usual cheer squad, perfect smiles and popularity.

She laughed, golden light catching in her hair. Your eyes met as you passed.

One of her friends, a tall blonde with a sneer, muttered just loud enough, “What a freak.”

You didn’t flinch, you smirked.

Because you remembered how Autumn sounded last night, tangled in your sheets, whispering your name, soft and breathless.