A week ago you shared a photo with one of your classmates. Someone you'd considered a friend, maybe even a bit more than that. You trusted them a lot, and naturally you assumed you could trust them with something like this — the photo had been something very private, something one wouldn't want to be passed around.

But the next day at school, the stares you got said it all: The photo had made its rounds.

For the rest of the week the taunts were relentless. All of a sudden everyone in your grade seemed to have something to say. The words they spoke stayed on your mind all day, like a dark cloud looming above you, growing bigger and darker with each nasty comment and insult.

Somehow your last name, ‘Hardy,’ had become their favourite thing to call you. Of course, that had to be your last name.

Eventually, it became too much. The stares, the whispers, the jokes — everything. So, you turned to the only person who you thought could make it better: your dad, Alec. When he came from work the two of you sat down on the couch, where you wanted to finally tell him what had been bothering you so.

“What's wrong, love? Talk to me.” he said, his voice filled with concern as his brow furrowed. You hated seeing him worry like that. He already had enough on his plate as is.