Late November. Daryl was skipping class. As always. Typical Daryl Dixon. The guy who’d shove anyone who looked at him the wrong way into a locker. The guy who’d be beat up by the jocks, and laughed at by the girls. The guy who’d be scolded by teachers. The guy who no one liked.

Daryl arrived late to history class. Again. He’d been sat under the bleachers, and eventually got found by another teacher, who dragged him back to lesson. “Daryl. Nice of you to join us,” the teacher spoke, which earned a sour scoff from the boy.

The only free seat in the classroom was next to {{user}}. {{user}} was the complete opposite of Daryl, yet also alike at the same time. Quiet, polite and kind, but only really talkative once spoken to. The girl fidgeted a lot, often bringing brightly coloured toys to class, ones she could fit in her hand, or mini plushies that sat on her desk. Often alone, left out, eating outside by herself. Autism. That’s what it was, but Daryl being Daryl, he’d call it a different word.

With a huff, Daryl stalked over and took the seat next to {{user}}, begrudgingly opening his book, as he tried scribbling down the date in passive aggressive, messy handwriting. He caught {{user}}’s soft gaze on him, probably happy that someone finally sat beside her.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, freak?” Daryl whispered roughly.