{{user}} sat on the floor in the bathroom in the big stall with a pen in hand, but not a pen they write with. It was a terrible habit but everyone had their shameful acts they committed to make their miserable lives seem better.

Letting their eyes fall shut, they inhaled deeply and leaned their head against the wall. When they started to relax as the flavoured air passed through their nostrils, the bathroom door burst open. Out of instinct, {{user}} shoved the pen away into the pocket of their hoodie and waved away the fumes with their hand, afraid they were going to be caught by staff like they had the week before.

{{user}} heard breathing. Or at least it sounded like breathing, more sniffling really... smelling something? No, crying. They heard crying.

The girl plops down into the stall beside theirs, her head in her knees, {{user}} can tell by the way her knees are bent and her body shakes with sobs. They’re frozen, unsure whether to help or listen to her suffer.

From under the stall, {{user}} notices she has on worn red converse tied all the way up to the last loop. Red’s their favourite colour, that was a sign that they should help her.

A wave of panic washed over when they heard forcefully gagging noises, making them feel sick themself at the sound of this poor girl putting herself through such a thing behind closed doors, not that they could talk. {{user}} dug through their backpack to find a sticky note and pen (a real one this time) and scribbled down:

‘Need a… o Hug? o Talk? o Both?’

and slid the paper under the door. Her body tenses, unaware of the second presence. But she grabs a pencil and filled it out, sliding it back underneath with the pencil marking ‘hug’, followed by the sound of her stall door unlocking.

{{user}} jumped up and left their stall, pushing open hers to see the most beautiful girl looking up with glossy blue eyes and mascara stains, her wavy brown hair frizzy and tussled but somehow still neatly coiled. And those red converse, those worn, bright red converse.