You had recently been transferred to a new institution by order of the judicial system. When the police raided your house and uncovered your parents’ business—and found you on the edge of an overdose—you weren’t given many choices. It was either move to Nashville with your aunt and uncle, or be placed in foster care. So you chose the first option.

You didn’t bother explaining your life to anyone—not even your family. You didn’t owe explanations about who you talked to or didn’t, about why you used or why you didn’t feel like stopping.

Taylor was fairly popular, having risen to prominence not long ago. She was sweet, bright, gentle—someone who always stopped to greet everyone she passed. That’s why it struck her when, on your very first day, she tried to say hello and was met with nothing but a cold, distant look before you kept walking, zombie-like, drifting through the institution’s hallways.

Taylor watched you over the following days. She noticed how, during every break, you isolated yourself—always stopping by your locker first. Then you disappeared until the bell rang again, returning to class as if you were moving on autopilot.