Summer was over and school is here.

The first day of eighth grade loomed over me like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable. All night, I stared at the cracked ceiling in my room, watching shadows shift with every passing car. No matter how much I tried to quiet my mind, the dread refused to loosen its grip. I kept replaying the same thought over and over: What will they think of me?

In the corner, my outfit for the day sat like an accusation, draped over the back of a rickety wooden chair. Calling them "clothes" felt generous. The faded T-shirt was barely holding together, frayed threads poking out from every seam like tiny flags of surrender. The jeans were so patched and worn that the original fabric was a distant memory. My shoes, once a bright white, were scuffed and stained, the soles peeling away at the edges.

When the alarm buzzed, the sound drilled straight through my head, jarring me into a reality I didn't want to face. I forced myself out of bed, the cold floorboards creaking beneath my feet. I dressed quickly, trying not to linger on how the fabric felt against my skin—rough, scratchy, and utterly humiliating. No amount of tugging at the shirt could make the holes disappear, and when I turned to the mirror, the reflection made my stomach twist even more. My hair, as unruly as ever, defied every attempt to tame it. The comb snagged on knots, and after a few painful pulls, I tossed it onto the dresser with a frustrated sigh.

Then there was the smell. It clung to me like a curse—faint but unmistakable. No matter how hard I scrubbed in the lukewarm water from the upstairs sink, I couldn't shake the mildew and sourness that seemed to seep from the walls of our cramped house. I swallowed hard, avoiding my own gaze in the mirror, and slung my too-light backpack over my shoulder.

Downstairs, the living room was dark, save for the flickering light from the muted TV. My mom was passed out on the couch, one arm dangling over the side, an empty beer can teetering on the edge of the coffee table. The air smelled stale, a mix of old cigarettes and last night's takeout. I paused in the doorway, half-hoping she might wake up and say something, anything. But she didn't stir.

I tiptoed to the door, grabbed my bag and stepped outside. The morning air was sharp and cold, stinging my cheeks and making me wish I had a jacket that wasn't two sizes too small. My breath puffed out in small clouds as I trudged toward school, the weight in my chest growing heavier with each step.

The building loomed in the distance, its brick walls almost mocking me. Inside, the hallways were alive with noise—laughter, shouts, the clatter of lockers opening and slamming shut. I tried to keep my head down, slipping through the crowd like a shadow, but it didn't take long before the whispers started.

"Did you see her shirt?"
"What's that smell?"
"Ew, do you think she even showers?"

The words pierced through me, each one sharper than the last. My face burned as I gripped the straps of my backpack tighter, willing myself not to cry. By the time I reached my locker, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely twist the dial.

"Need help with that?" a voice sneered behind me. I didn't turn around, just kept fumbling until the lock finally clicked open. I shoved my bag inside, slammed the door shut, and darted toward my first class, which was homeroom, without looking back.

The classroom felt like a minefield. Every eye that turned my way felt like a spotlight, exposing every flaw, every hole in my shirt, every scuff on my shoes. I slipped into a seat near the back, wishing I could disappear. As the teacher began the roll call, my stomach churned, the dread bubbling back up with every passing second. Just make it through the day, I told myself, but the knot in my chest made it hard to believe that was possible.

My first teacher of the day was an older woman with a sharp voice and a no-nonsense attitude. She began class with a lengthy speech about discipline and hard work, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk sizing up its prey. Her gaze settled on me for a moment too long, and I felt my cheeks burn. I sank lower in my seat, wishing I could become invisible.

The rest of the morning unfolded in a series of awkward introductions and stilted silences. Each teacher seemed to carry an air of authority that pressed down on me like the weight of the school's heavy brick walls. Their expectations loomed large, adding to the knot of anxiety already twisting in my chest. By the time the bell signaled lunch, I felt drained, as though I'd already run a marathon.

The cafeteria was a whirlwind of noise and movement. Students spilled through the doors in waves, their laughter and chatter echoing off the high ceilings. The line for food stretched long, students jostling each other as they grabbed trays and piled them with steaming dishes. My stomach growled at the smell of pizza and mashed potatoes, but I didn't have a tray.

My mother hadn't filled out the paperwork for free lunch, and I didn't have a single cent to my name. I didn't belong here, and the glaring absence of a meal tray in my hands felt like a flashing neon sign announcing that to everyone. I found an empty seat at a table near the back of the room and sat down, wrapping my arms around my stomach as if that could quiet the gnawing hunger.

The minutes crawled by, the chaos around me only amplifying the ache inside. I kept my head down, hoping no one would notice me.

"Hey, Emily," a familiar voice said.

I looked up to see Jasmine standing there, her tray stacked with food. She smiled as she slid into the seat across from me, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold knot in my stomach.

"How's it going?" she asked, her tone light and easy.

I shrugged, unable to find my voice. The lump in my throat made it impossible to speak.

Her smile faltered as she looked me over, her eyes narrowing in concern. "You didn't get lunch?"

"I'm not hungry," I lied, my words barely audible over the din of the cafeteria.

Jasmine's brow furrowed, and she studied me for a moment. Then, without a word, she picked up an apple from her tray and held it out to me.

"Here. Take this," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Jasmine, I can't..."

"Yes, you can," she said firmly, pushing the apple into my hand. "You need to eat."

My fingers curled around the smooth skin of the apple, its weight grounding me. Tears prickled my eyes, but I blinked them away, murmuring a quiet "thank you."

Jasmine didn't make a big deal of it. She just started eating her lunch, chatting about her classes and a funny story about a kid in math who accidentally broke his calculator. Her voice was steady and familiar, a soothing backdrop to the chaos around us.

I took a tentative bite of the apple. It was crisp and sweet, the taste spreading warmth through my chest.

The rest of the day was a struggle. The whispers and stares didn't just linger—they grew sharper, louder in my mind, like a dull ache that wouldn't fade. Every hallway felt like a gauntlet, every classroom a cage. By the time the final bell rang, my shoulders ached from the invisible weight of it all, and my legs felt like they might buckle under me.

I walked home slowly, dragging my feet along the cracked sidewalk. The late afternoon sun was warm, but it offered no comfort. Instead, it highlighted every imperfection: the weeds pushing through the concrete, the peeling paint on the neighbors' fences, the uneven patchwork of lawns that lined the street. It felt like the world itself was mocking me.

When I reached the house, the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and something vaguely burnt greeted me. Inside, the TV blared one of my mother's soap operas. She was sprawled on the couch, her hair a messy halo around her head, an empty beer can resting precariously on the armrest. Her eyes didn't flicker toward me, not even for a second, as I passed by.

"Hey, Mom," I muttered, though I knew she wouldn't respond. She never did anymore.

I trudged to my room, the apple core still clutched in my hand, brown and shriveled now from hours of being forgotten. I should've tossed it in the trash, but I couldn't bring myself to let go of it. It was the only thing I'd managed to hold onto today.

Once inside, I closed the door gently, as if the sound might crack the fragile stillness. The walls of my room, once painted a cheerful yellow, were now faded and scarred with years of thumbtacks and tape marks from the previous owners. The peeling wallpaper on one side curled like old paper, and I stared at it blankly as I sank onto the edge of my bed.

I sat there for what felt like hours, my hands resting limply in my lap. The apple core was a strange, absurd weight in my palm, a reminder of everything that had gone wrong. I thought about throwing it across the room, smashing it into the wall, but the energy to move eluded me.

The muffled sound of the soap opera filtered through the thin walls, a dull hum of exaggerated arguments and fake tears. It felt so far removed from my own life, yet too close at the same time. I wanted to scream, to cry, to do something that might shatter this endless monotony, but instead, I just sat there, wishing for something—anything—to change.

The sunlight faded, casting long shadows across my room. Outside, the neighborhood came to life with distant sounds of dogs barking, kids laughing, and car doors slamming. It felt like the world kept spinning without me, leaving me trapped in this tiny, peeling corner of it.

Finally, I let the apple core fall to the floor. It landed with a soft thud, rolling slightly before coming to rest. It felt like a metaphor for my whole day—disregarded, unnoticed, and out of place.

I leaned back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling where a faint water stain had grown into the shape of a lopsided heart. I traced its edges with my eyes, trying to imagine what life might look like if things were different. Better. But no matter how hard I tried, the image wouldn't come.

The second day of school started worse than the first. The comments and whispers had already spread like wildfire. It seemed like everyone had heard something about me—or maybe they were just inventing their own stories. As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I could feel the eyes on me—judging, mocking, dissecting every inch of my being. My palms were clammy, and my heartbeat thudded in my ears, drowning out the buzz of morning chatter.

It didn't take long for the whispers to turn into something sharper. I was halfway to my locker when I heard it.

"Hey, Emily," a voice rang out. It was Trevor, the self-appointed king of the eighth grade. His cocky grin, plastered with the kind of confidence that only bullies and their followers could muster, stretched across his face. He leaned against the lockers with a group of his friends, all of them watching me like vultures circling a fresh kill. "Didn't know they let the homeless in for free."

The words hit me like a slap. My cheeks burned, and my stomach twisted into a knot. Before I could even think of a response, his friends erupted into laughter, their voices blending into a cruel chorus that seemed to echo down the hallway.

I tried to keep walking, to pretend I hadn't heard him, but Trevor wasn't done. He pushed off the lockers and sauntered after me, his footsteps deliberate and heavy, like a predator toying with its prey.

"What's that smell?" he said, wrinkling his nose in an exaggerated motion, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. He sniffed the air theatrically, earning another round of snickers from his posse. "Oh, wait, it's you. You're the one stinking up the place."

My throat tightened as the humiliation bubbled up, threatening to spill over in the form of tears. I gripped the straps of my backpack so hard that my knuckles turned white, willing myself to stay calm, to keep moving. But my legs felt like they were wading through quicksand, every step slower and heavier than the last.

Trevor wasn't satisfied with just words. As I reached the corner near my classroom, I felt something hard hit my back. A crumpled piece of paper bounced off and landed on the floor. I froze, staring at it as though it might explode. Behind me, the laughter reached a fever pitch.

"Pick it up, Emily," Trevor taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "Or is that too much work for you?"

I didn't look back. I couldn't. My vision blurred, and I quickened my pace, practically running the last few steps to the nearest classroom. As I slipped inside, my heart pounded so hard that I thought it might burst.

The teacher, already at his desk, leafing through a stack of papers, was tall, with a booming voice that commanded attention, but at the moment, he barely glanced up as I entered. I slid into a seat near the back, keeping my head down and my hands folded tightly in my lap. The classroom felt like a safe haven, a bubble where Trevor and his gang couldn't reach me—at least for the next fifty minutes.

But the words and laughter followed me. They clung to my skin like a sticky film, impossible to wash off. I stared at the desk in front of me, trying to focus on the wood grain patterns, the faint etchings of initials carved by students who had sat here before me. Anything to distract from the humiliation burning in my chest.

As the bell rang and the teacher began the lesson, his voice faded into the background. All I could think about was the hallway, Trevor's sneer, and the growing dread of facing the rest of the day. Because deep down, I knew this wasn't over. It was only the beginning.

Lunch wasn't any better. I sat at the same table as the day before, my stomach growling as I watched the other students eat, their laughter and chatter feeling like a distant hum I didn't belong to. My tray sat empty in front of me, a silent declaration of the lunch I couldn't afford. Jasmine found me again, her tray piled high with food—slices of pizza, a carton of chocolate milk, and a generous helping of fries glistening with salt. She set it down with a clatter and handed me another apple, along with a small bag of chips.

"You have to eat," she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her eyes were steady, firm.

I nodded, my cheeks flushing hot as I accepted the food. "Thank you," I mumbled, my voice barely louder than the rustle of the chip bag.

As I nibbled on the apple, the sharp crunch almost drowned out the approaching sound of mocking laughter. Trevor and his friends were weaving through the tables, their voices carrying above the general noise of the cafeteria. My shoulders tensed as they neared. Trevor, with his stupid, smug grin and a cruel glint in his eye, zeroed in on me like a hawk spotting wounded prey.

"Aw, look at that," he sneered, stopping beside our table. His gaze flicked from me to the food in front of me. "Did your little friend have to feed you? How pathetic."

Laughter rippled from his friends, a chorus of cruelty that made my stomach twist. I kept my head down, staring at the apple in my hand as if it could shield me from his words.

"Leave them alone, Trevor," Jasmine said sharply. Her voice cut through the air like the snap of a whip, surprising me.

Trevor's grin only widened. "Or what? You're gonna tell a teacher? Good luck with that. You think they care about a charity case and her little sidekick?"

His friends snickered, leaning in as if to savor every bit of my humiliation. One of them, a lanky boy with a mop of greasy hair, snorted and added, "Maybe she can't afford her own lunch because she spent all her money on that hideous sweater."

The others roared with laughter, and my hands clenched into fists under the table. The sweater wasn't even mine—it was a hand-me-down, faded and stretched at the sleeves. But I couldn't find the words to defend myself. They caught in my throat, swallowed by the lump of shame that grew with every jeer.

"Just walk away, Trevor," Jasmine said, her voice low and dangerous now. "No one's impressed."

He leaned closer, his breath reeking of cafeteria pizza. "I'll walk away when I feel like it," he hissed, loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough that no teachers would notice. "And maybe you should mind your own business before you end up on the loser list too."

He straightened, his smirk firmly in place, and turned on his heel. As he swaggered off, his friends followed, their laughter echoing behind him like a bad memory that wouldn't fade.

I stared at the table, my appetite completely gone. The apple sat half-eaten in my hand, and the bag of chips remained unopened. Jasmine reached across the table, her hand brushing mine lightly.

"Don't listen to him," she said, her voice soft now. "He's just a jerk."

Her words were kind, but they couldn't erase the sting of Trevor's cruelty. My cheeks still burned, and my chest ached with the weight of my embarrassment. All I could think about was the laughter—the way it felt like everyone in the cafeteria was laughing at me. And for the rest of lunch, I couldn't bring myself to look up.

The situation worsened a few days later when Trevor somehow found out something I'd never shared with anyone outside of Jasmine. I didn't know how he found out, but it didn't matter. He used it as fuel for his cruelty, pouring salt into wounds I hadn't even known were still open.

"Hey, Emily," he called out one morning, his voice dripping with mockery. The crowded hallway buzzed with conversation, but his tone cut through the noise like a razor. I stiffened, clutching my books closer to my chest. "Or should I call you something else? I hear you don't even know what you are."

The hallway seemed to freeze. Conversations tapered off, and curious eyes turned toward us. His words echoed off the walls, bouncing around in my head. My stomach dropped as if I were free-falling, and a wave of heat surged to my face. I froze, unable to move or speak, caught like a deer in headlights.

Trevor smirked, sensing my vulnerability. "What's it like being... what do they call it?" he said, feigning confusion and tapping his chin as though searching for the word. "Oh, yeah, gender fluid. Is that even a real thing, or are you just making it up for attention?"

Laughter erupted from his friends, sharp and cold like breaking glass. The sound ricocheted in my ears, amplifying my humiliation. I wanted to disappear, to vanish into thin air and escape the oppressive stares of my classmates. My hands trembled as I clenched them into fists, willing myself not to cry. If I cried, it would only make things worse.

"Isn't that just another way of saying you're confused?" Trevor pressed on, his voice rising to ensure everyone heard. "Like, make up your mind already. Boy or girl? It's not that hard."

My breath hitched. The words hit like physical blows, each one more painful than the last. I glanced around, hoping for someone—anyone—to step in, but the crowd simply stared, their expressions ranging from pity to morbid curiosity. My throat tightened, and my vision blurred with unshed tears.

Then, like a sudden gust of wind breaking through suffocating heat, Jasmine appeared beside me. Her expression was fierce, her dark eyes blazing with anger. "Back off, Trevor," she snapped, her voice steady and sharp. "You don't know anything about her."

Trevor's smirk deepened, and he took a step closer. "Oh, I know enough," he sneered, his tone oozing with false confidence. "Like how she can't even decide what to call herself. That's pretty sad, isn't it? Maybe if she wasn't so weird, people wouldn't have to keep wondering what she is."

The laughter that followed was cruel and biting, echoing in my ears long after it had stopped. My vision swam, and the world around me felt too loud, too bright. I could barely breathe.

Jasmine stepped forward, her shoulders squared as she put herself between us. "Go away, Trevor. Now." Her voice was low and dangerous, a warning that even he couldn't ignore.

Trevor's bravado faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his options. Then, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he scoffed. "Whatever," he said, turning on his heel. "Not my fault some people can't handle the truth."

He walked off, his laughter fading as he disappeared down the hall. His friends followed, but their departure didn't ease the weight crushing my chest. The damage was done. My secret was out, and I felt more exposed than ever. It was as if he had stripped me bare in front of everyone, leaving me raw and vulnerable.

Jasmine turned to me, her expression softening. "Are you okay?" she asked gently, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I couldn't speak. My throat felt like it was closing, and the tears I'd been holding back spilled over, hot and unrelenting. I nodded, though it was a lie, and Jasmine pulled me into a hug. "It's going to be okay," she whispered, her voice steady and soothing. "We'll get through this together."

But as much as I wanted to believe her, the ache in my chest told me otherwise. The walls that had once felt like a safe haven now loomed over me, oppressive and unkind. I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone was staring, judging, laughing at my expense.

As Jasmine walked me to class, shielding me from the lingering gazes, one thought repeated in my mind: How did he find out? And how was I ever supposed to face the world now?

By the time I got home, I was emotionally drained. Every step toward the house felt heavier than the last, like my body was resisting the thought of returning. The front door creaked loudly as I pushed it open, a sound that instantly set my nerves on edge. My mother was in the kitchen, arms crossed, her face twisted into a scowl that only deepened when she saw me.

"What took you so long?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut.

"I walked," I muttered, dropping my bag by the door. My voice was quiet, cautious, as if the wrong tone would make things worse.

She snorted. "Walked? What kind of excuse is that? You're not some princess who gets to take her sweet time doing whatever she wants."

"I'm sorry," I said automatically, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for.

"Well, sorry doesn't get the laundry done, does it?" she snapped, jabbing a finger toward the hallway. "Get moving. And don't forget to clean the bathroom after. It's disgusting, just like this house is whenever you're around."

I bit back a sigh, the words pressing against my lips like a scream I wasn't allowed to release. Without another word, I trudged to the laundry room. The pile of dirty clothes was massive, spilling over the edge of the hamper onto the floor. It smelled like mildew and something sour, a combination that made my stomach churn.

The ancient washing machine loomed in the corner like a beast waiting to fail me. Its rusted edges and duct-taped lid were a testament to years of neglect. As I stuffed it full, the machine let out a protesting groan, shaking violently as it sputtered to life. I hovered for a moment, half-expecting it to give up entirely, before turning to the next chore.

The bathroom was worse than I expected. Soap scum coated the sink like a grimy film, and the tiles were streaked with something I didn't want to identify. I grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing, the harsh smell of bleach stinging my nose. My arms ached as I worked, but I didn't dare stop until every corner gleamed. I knew my mother would inspect it later, searching for any excuse to berate me.

By the time I finished, my body was screaming for rest, but I knew better than to assume I was done. My mother was in the living room now, a beer in her hand and her favorite soap opera blaring from the TV. She barely glanced at me as I collapsed onto the couch, hoping for just a moment to breathe.

"Don't just sit there," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Take out the trash. Or do I need to spell it out for you?"

Her words hit like a slap, and for a moment, I felt something inside me crack. I wanted to yell, to tell her how unfair it all was, how much I hated living like this. But I knew it wouldn't make a difference. It never did. So, I dragged myself back to my feet and did as I was told, the trash bag heavy in my hands as I carried it to the curb.

Outside, the cool night air was a small mercy. I lingered for a moment, savoring the quiet, before forcing myself back inside. When I returned, my mother didn't even acknowledge me. She was too engrossed in her show, her laughter cutting through the tension like a cruel reminder that she was fine while I wasn't.

That night, as I lay in bed, Trevor's words echoed in my mind. The memory of his mocking tone and the way the others had laughed felt like a weight pressing down on my chest. The shame and humiliation were overwhelming, and for the first time, I felt like I couldn't face another day.

But then there was Jasmine. Her kindness lingered like a small, fragile flame in the darkness. She hadn't laughed. She hadn't turned away. That simple gesture, her smile, was the only thing keeping me from breaking completely. I held onto it as tightly as I could, hoping it would be enough to get me through.