The morning began like any other Friday. The hum of lockers slamming shut, the steady thrum of chatter, and the occasional call of "Hey, wait up!" created a familiar symphony as I made my way through the crowded hallway. The routine felt strangely comforting, like a rhythm I could count on.

I reached my locker and spun the combination dial, already mentally sorting through my homework and the day ahead. Before I could grab my books, Jasmine appeared, sliding into the space next to me like she always did. She had that usual grin on her face, the one that made it impossible not to smile back.

"You'll never guess what my little brother did this morning," she said, leaning against the neighboring locker.

"What?" I asked, chuckling as I swapped out my notebooks.

"He tried to put chocolate syrup on scrambled eggs, thinking it was 'all part of breakfast,'" she said, shaking her head. "Mom almost lost it."

I laughed, imagining the scene. "Sounds like he's keeping you on your toes."

"Oh, always," she said, her grin widening. "I swear, living with him is like living with a mini chaos machine."

I shut my locker and adjusted the strap of my backpack. "Only one more day, and we're free for the weekend," she added, her voice bright with anticipation. "Any big plans?"

"Not really," I admitted with a shrug. "Probably just hanging out at home. You?"

"Same. Well, unless my mom ropes me into babysitting again," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "But you've got Sam and Lily, right? I'm sure they'll drag you into something."

I laughed softly, picturing Lily with her endless energy and Sam's quiet mischief. "Probably," I said. "They're good at that."

The bell rang, echoing through the hallway and spurring a burst of movement around us. Jasmine straightened, pulling her bag higher onto her shoulder. "Catch you at lunch?" she called over her shoulder as she headed toward her classroom.

"Yeah, see you then," I said, watching her go before turning toward my own class.

As I walked, the chatter around me faded into the background, my thoughts drifting to the weekend ahead. Jasmine was right—Sam and Lily always found ways to keep things interesting. Whether it was a snowball fight, an impromptu board game marathon, or just hanging out in the living room, they had a knack for turning quiet days into something memorable. The thought made me smile as I stepped into the classroom, ready to take on the day.

The morning passed uneventfully until halfway through my second class. The lesson dragged on, and the equations on the board seemed to mix together. I raised my hand, hoping for a brief reprieve. "Can I use the restroom?" I asked, my voice quiet but steady.

The teacher nodded, handing me the laminated hall pass without a second glance. I slipped out of the classroom, the weight of the room lifting slightly as I stepped into the quiet hallway. The distant hum of other classes, the faint shuffle of papers, and the occasional squeak of sneakers created a strange calm. I let out a small sigh, grateful for the break.

As I rounded the corner toward the bathrooms, my steps slowed. Trevor was there, leaning against the wall like he owned the place, his arms crossed and that infuriatingly smug grin plastered across his face. My stomach tightened, a knot of dread forming instantly.

"Look who it is," he said, his voice loud in the otherwise silent hallway. His tone dripped with mockery, and I knew what was coming before the words left his mouth. "The 'not-a-girl-not-a-boy' freak."

My chest tightened, and my hand gripped the hall pass harder. Forcing myself to walk past him, I tried to ignore the icy knot in my stomach. "Leave me alone, Trevor," I said, my voice more even than I felt inside.

He stepped into my path, cutting me off effortlessly. "Aw, don't be like that," he said, his tone as taunting as his smirk. "I'm just trying to figure it out. What are you today? Girl? Boy? Something else? Or do you not even know?"

"Go away," I said firmly, trying to sidestep him, but he shifted to block me again. The hallway suddenly felt too long, too empty, the door to my classroom too far behind me.

"It's confusing, you know," he continued, ignoring my attempt to move past him. His words sliced through the air, each one sharper than the last. "How's anyone supposed to take you seriously when you can't even decide who you are?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and my heart pounding. I wanted to fire back, to tell him to shut up, to yell, to do something. But the words caught in my throat, tangled with the tight knot of fear and anger. My hands shook at my sides as I stared at the floor, willing him to leave, to disappear, to let me breathe.

Trevor leaned closer, invading what little space I had left. His voice dropped, turning even more venomous. "Bet your foster family doesn't even get it," he sneered. "They probably think you're just making it up for attention."

"That's not true," I said, the words barely audible. My voice wavered, and I hated how weak I sounded, like I was proving him right.

"Oh, sure it's not," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Face it—you're just a weirdo. No one actually cares."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. My chest felt like it was caving in, and my vision blurred with tears I fought to hold back. The hallway around me seemed to close in, the walls pressing tighter as the noise of the world faded. It was just his voice, sharp and cruel, echoing in my mind.

Somewhere down the hall, the faint sound of a door opening reached my ears. Trevor straightened up, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to me. He gave me one last sneer, his voice dripping with mock disdain. "Whatever," he muttered. "You're not worth it."

With that, he walked away, his footsteps fading around the corner. I stood there, frozen in place, the tension in my chest making it hard to breathe. My fists were clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms, the dull sting grounding me in the moment. My whole body trembled as his words echoed in my head, each one carving deeper into the cracks they'd already created.

Finally, I stumbled into the bathroom, the heavy door creaking as I pushed it open. The harsh fluorescent lights made the space feel colder, more sterile. I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes red-rimmed, the tears threatening to spill over no matter how hard I tried to blink them back.

The room was empty, but I felt anything but alone. Trevor's voice lingered, his words twisting in my mind like knives. I sat on the toilet and was about to cry.

"You're not worth it."

I bit down on my lip to keep from sobbing, the taste of copper sharp on my tongue. I wanted to scream, to cry, to punch the wall beside me just to feel something other than the ache in my chest. But I didn't. Instead, sat there, shaking, waiting for the storm inside me to pass.

Once I was finished doing my business, I left the stall and stood next to the mirror looking at the sink.

When I finally lifted my head, the girl in the mirror looked just as lost as I felt. But beneath the tears and the fear, there was something else—a flicker of anger, of defiance. Trevor's words might have cut deep, but they weren't the truth. They couldn't be.

Taking a deep breath, I splashed cold water on my face, the icy shock pulling me back into the moment. I straightened up, wiping my face with a paper towel before stepping back into the hallway. My hands still trembled, but I forced myself to walk back to class, each step heavy but determined.

Trevor might have tried to tear me down, but I wouldn't let him win. Not today.

When I returned to class, the fluorescent lights felt harsher, the room colder. My footsteps were quiet as I slipped back into my seat, hoping to disappear into the background. Jasmine glanced at me, her brows knitting together in curiosity, but I avoided her eyes, keeping my focus on the notebook in front of me.

"You okay?" she whispered, leaning closer.

"Yeah," I murmured, forcing a small smile that I knew didn't reach my eyes. "Just needed some air."

She hesitated, studying me like she didn't quite believe me, but the teacher's voice cut through the room, and she leaned back, turning her attention to the lesson. I exhaled slowly, grateful for the reprieve.

The rest of the class dragged on, the teacher's words blending into a monotonous hum that barely registered. My notebook lay open, the lines of the paper blurring as my mind replayed the hallway encounter over and over. The way Trevor's smirk had cut through me, his words digging into places I thought I'd buried. My hands gripped the edges of the desk, and I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, trying to keep the tears at bay.

When the bell finally rang, it was like a release valve. I packed my things quickly, avoiding Jasmine's curious glances as we made our way to lunch. The noise of the cafeteria hit me like a wave—trays clattering, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Normally, it felt chaotic but manageable. Today, it felt suffocating.

Jasmine and Mia were already at our usual table, waving me over. I hesitated for a moment, my feet feeling like lead, before making my way toward them. I plastered on a smile, sliding into the seat across from Mia. She was in the middle of recounting something funny that had happened during her English class, her animated gestures drawing a laugh from Jasmine.

"What'd I miss?" I asked, my voice lighter than I felt.

"Oh, just Mia embarrassing herself in front of Mr. Andrews," Jasmine said, grinning.

"I didn't embarrass myself!" Mia protested, though the blush creeping up her neck said otherwise. "I just... dropped my pen. Loudly. And then tripped trying to pick it up."

"And knocked over his coffee mug," Jasmine added, her grin widening.

"Okay, fine," Mia said, laughing. "It was a disaster."

Their laughter filled the space around me, warm and easy, but I felt disconnected, like I was watching it through a glass wall. I picked at my sandwich, nodding and laughing at the right moments, but the weight in my chest didn't lift. Trevor's voice was still there, a shadow clinging to the edges of my mind.

"You're so quiet today," Jasmine said, nudging me with her elbow. "What's up?"

I shrugged, taking a sip of water to buy myself a moment. "Just tired," I said, keeping my tone casual.

"You work too hard," Mia said, pointing at me with a fry. "It's Friday. Relax a little."

I smiled faintly, the effort of keeping up the act draining me. They didn't press further, shifting the conversation to weekend plans. Jasmine talked about a family game night, while Mia rambled on about her plans to reorganize her bookshelf, which led to a good-natured argument about the best way to sort books.

I laughed when they did, my voice blending with theirs, but it felt hollow. The heaviness in my chest stayed, a constant reminder of the words I couldn't shake. "No one actually cares."

As lunch wore on, I found myself watching them—Jasmine's expressive gestures, Mia's easy smile—and wondering if they'd still laugh and talk with me if they knew what had happened. If they knew how Trevor's words had cut me so deeply, leaving me feeling raw and exposed.

I wanted to tell them. I wanted to say the words out loud, to share the weight I was carrying. But every time I opened my mouth, the fear crept in. What if they thought I was overreacting? What if it made things awkward? What if I ruined the easy rhythm of our friendship with something so heavy?

So I stayed quiet. I nodded and laughed, pretending everything was fine, even as the ache in my chest grew heavier. When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, I stood with them, their chatter swirling around me as we headed back to class.

But even as I smiled and joined in their conversation, I couldn't shake the feeling that Trevor's words were still following me, lingering like a shadow I couldn't escape.

The afternoon felt like it was dragging on purpose, as if every clock in the school had conspired to slow down. Each class blurred into the next, the monotony broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the faint hum of someone whispering behind me. I tried to focus—on the board, on my notes, on anything that wasn't Trevor's voice echoing in my head. But it was like his words had taken root, twisting and growing until they overshadowed everything else.

The sound of chalk against the board was sharp and grating, and I flinched when the teacher called on me unexpectedly. I stumbled through my answer, my cheeks burning as the classroom fell silent for a moment too long before the teacher moved on. My stomach churned, the familiar weight of embarrassment settling in.

I glanced at the clock, willing the minute hand to move faster. The classroom felt stuffy, the air too heavy to breathe properly. I tapped my pencil against the desk, a steady rhythm that I hoped would anchor me, but it did little to ease the growing discomfort in my chest. The weight of the day pressed down harder with every passing second.

By the time the final bell rang, it felt like a release. I packed up my books slowly, letting the other students rush out before me. My shoulders slumped under the weight of my bag as I made my way into the crowded hallway. It was loud—laughter, shouts, the clatter of lockers—but the noise felt distant, like I was hearing it through a wall of static.

People swirled around me, their voices overlapping as they made weekend plans. "See you at the mall!" someone called out. "Don't forget the game tomorrow!" another voice shouted. I kept my head down, weaving through the throng like a ghost. No one noticed me, and for once, I was grateful. The idea of having to smile, to pretend everything was fine, felt impossible.

As I stepped outside, the cold air hit me like a slap, shocking me out of my thoughts. Snow crunched beneath my boots, and the gray sky above matched the heaviness in my chest. Mrs. Blake's car was parked in its usual spot near the curb, and I could see her inside, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited.

I trudged toward the car, my bag pulling at my shoulder with every step. The sight of her face, warm and familiar through the windshield, brought a flicker of comfort. But it was fleeting, chased away by the memory of Trevor's sneer and the sting of his words.

When I opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, Mrs. Blake turned to me, her smile gentle but questioning. "Hey, Emily," she said softly.

The car was warm, the heater humming softly, but the warmth didn't reach me. The frost on the glass left faint streaks where my breath fogged it, and I traced a line with my finger absentmindedly, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest.

In the backseat, Lily chattered away, her voice animated as she recounted a story about her teacher spilling coffee on the attendance sheet. "And then she tried to act like nothing happened," Lily said, giggling. "But we all saw it, and the paper had this big brown stain right in the middle!"

Mrs. Blake chuckled at Lily's enthusiasm, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Sam, slouched in his seat, barely looked up from his phone, muttering something that sounded like "classic Mrs. Carter" before returning to his scrolling. The two of them felt like background noise—distant, muffled, and separate from me.

"What about you, Emily?" Mrs. Blake asked suddenly, her voice breaking through the haze. She glanced at me in the mirror, her tone gentle. "How was your day?"

For a moment, I didn't respond. The question felt heavier than it should have, like she'd asked me to explain something I didn't even understand myself. "Fine," I said finally, the word stiff and hollow in my mouth. "It was... Okay."

Mrs. Blake's eyes lingered on me in the mirror, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She didn't push, but I could feel her watching me a moment longer before turning her attention back to the road.

Lily's story continued, her words blending with the hum of the car engine, but I couldn't focus. My mind was a storm, a swirling mess of thoughts and feelings I couldn't untangle. Trevor's words from earlier echoed in my head, their sharp edges cutting deeper every time I replayed them.

You're a weirdo. No one actually cares.

My chest felt tight, the ache spreading until it felt like it might crush me. I dug my fingernails into my palms, hoping the sharp sensation would pull me out of it, but it didn't help. I was trapped inside my own head, the walls closing in around me.

"Emily, did you hear that?" Lily's voice pulled me back, her face leaning forward between the seats. "I said we should make snow forts again tomorrow! Maybe even a snow maze! What do you think?"

I blinked at her, trying to muster a response. "Uh, yeah," I said weakly. "That sounds... fun."

Lily tilted her head, her cheerful expression dimming just slightly. "You okay?" she asked. "You seem kinda... I don't know, quiet."

"Lily," Mrs. Blake said gently, giving her a quick look in the mirror. "Give Emily some space, okay?"

Lily sat back with a small pout. "I was just asking."

I wanted to say something to reassure her, to tell her I was fine, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I turned back to the window, watching the snow-covered houses blur past. The world outside looked so peaceful, so perfect, but it felt like it was mocking me. Inside, I felt like I was falling apart, and no one could see it.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, at least for me. Lily and Sam went back to their usual bickering, their voices a low hum against the noise of my thoughts. Mrs. Blake's occasional laughter at their antics felt distant, like it was happening in another room.

When we pulled into the driveway, the house looked warm and inviting, its porch light glowing softly against the evening sky. But to me, it felt heavy—like it was just another place where I had to keep pretending everything was fine.

"Emily," Mrs. Blake said as I opened the car door. Her voice was calm, steady, but there was something else in it. Concern. "If you ever want to talk about something, you know I'm here, right?"

I nodded quickly, not trusting myself to speak. "Yeah. Thanks."

Her eyes stayed on me for a moment, as if she wanted to say more, but then she nodded. "Okay. Go on inside. I'll be in soon."

As I stepped into the house, the warmth hit me like a wave, but it didn't bring comfort. My backpack felt heavier than usual as I trudged up the stairs to my room. I dropped it by the door and sank onto the bed, staring at the floor. The quiet of the room was suffocating, the stillness pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe.

I felt the tears welling up before I could stop them. Curling into myself, I let them fall, silent and uncontrollable. The weight in my chest felt unbearable, a heaviness I didn't know how to carry. No matter how much I tried to push it down, to hold myself together, it kept coming back, stronger each time.

I wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but the words stayed trapped inside me. Instead, I lay there, the tears soaking into my pillow, wishing I could disappear.

Dinner was a quiet affair, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, like everyone was holding back. Sam and Lily, usually quick to trade jabs or crack jokes, were subdued. Their conversation drifted to whispers about some group project they were working on at school, their voices too low for me to catch all the details. I was grateful for the lack of chaos, but the stillness made the ache in my chest more noticeable.

Mrs. Blake tried to keep the mood light, her questions directed at each of us in turn. "How's the project coming along, Lily? Do you have everything you need?"

Lily nodded, twirling her fork through her mashed potatoes. "Yeah, but Sam keeps hogging the markers."

"I do not," Sam shot back, his tone lacking its usual fire. He was slouched in his chair, poking at his food with little interest. "I'm just better at drawing."

"That's not true!" Lily said, her voice rising just enough to remind me of their usual dynamic, but even she seemed less spirited tonight.

"What about you, Emily?" Mrs. Blake asked gently, her eyes lingering on me. "Any homework for the weekend?"

"Just some reading," I said quietly, keeping my gaze fixed on my plate. The words came out stiff and unnatural, and I knew she could tell something was off.

"Well, that sounds nice," Mrs. Blake said, her voice softening. "A quiet weekend might be just what we all need."

I nodded absently, my fork dragging through the mashed potatoes in slow circles. I wasn't really hungry, but I kept moving the food around to avoid drawing attention. The clinking of utensils and the occasional murmur filled the silence, but it felt like a hollow attempt at normalcy. I couldn't shake the weight in my chest, the way Trevor's words had latched onto me like burrs that refused to let go.

After dinner, I mumbled something about being tired and excused myself. No one stopped me, though Mrs. Blake gave me a long look as I pushed my chair back. Her concern was obvious, but she didn't say anything. I avoided her eyes, hoping she wouldn't press me.

Upstairs, the familiar comfort of my room beckoned. I dropped onto my bed, the springs creaking under the sudden weight.

I pulled out my journal, the one I kept hidden under my pillow like a secret lifeline. It was small and a little battered, the edges of the leather cover worn from years of being opened and closed in moments like this. Writing had always been my way of making sense of things, of pulling the tangled mess of thoughts out of my head and putting them somewhere safe where they couldn't hurt as much.

I flipped to the next blank page, the smooth paper waiting for me to fill it with everything I couldn't say out loud. For a moment, I hesitated, my pen hovering above the page. Then the words came, spilling out faster than I could think.

Why does he hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?

I pressed the pen hard against the paper, the letters almost digging through to the next page. I didn't care. I needed to get it out—the anger, the confusion, the sadness that felt like it was going to burst out of me if I didn't let it go.

He doesn't even know me. Not really. But that doesn't stop him, does it? He acts like he has me all figured out, like I'm just some joke he can laugh at, something he can tear apart. Why does he care so much about what I wear, what I say, who I am? Why does it matter to him? Why can't he just leave me alone?

The page filled quickly, the words slanting slightly as my hand moved faster and faster.

It's not just the things he says. It's the way he says them, like they're facts. Like I'm nothing. Like I'm wrong just for existing. And maybe—maybe part of me believes him. Maybe that's what hurts the most. That little voice in the back of my mind that whispers, "What if he's right?"

I stopped, my pen hovering again as I stared at the page. The tears I'd been holding back started to fall, blurring the ink, but I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall. I let myself feel the ache that I'd been trying to bury all day.

But as the tears came, so did something else—a spark. It wasn't big, but it was enough to make me pick up the pen again, my grip tighter now, my strokes more deliberate.

No. He's not right. He doesn't get to be right.

I started a new paragraph, the words coming slower this time, more measured.

He doesn't know me. Not really. He doesn't know what I've been through, what I've survived. He doesn't know how hard it is to keep going some days, to keep holding on when it feels like the whole world is telling you you're not enough. He doesn't know, and he never will. So why should I care what he thinks?

I paused, my heart beating faster as I wrote the next line.

He doesn't get to win. He doesn't get to decide who I am.

The pen felt steady in my hand now, the tears slowing as I stared at the words. I underlined that last sentence twice, pressing hard enough that the pen left grooves in the paper.

I turned the page, writing in bold letters at the top:

I am not what he says I am. I am more than his words.

Underneath, I made a list.

I am kind.
I am strong.
I am brave, even when I don't feel like it.
I am enough.

The list grew as I wrote, the words building on themselves like a wall between me and Trevor's voice. Each one felt like a little victory, a reminder that I wasn't the person he tried to make me believe I was.

When I finally closed the journal, tucking it back under my pillow, the weight in my chest felt a little lighter. The words were still there, on the page where they couldn't hurt me anymore.