The girls around me chattered like songbirds about this and that: boys, gossip, how much they hate blah blah blah. I hated them. I hated all of them. I didn’t mind being in class with them until I gasp got to know them.
I was the girl in black. The weirdo. The freak. The “emo.” Like my relationship with my classmates, I hated that word. Emo. The name practically makes people called that doomed to live the life of a harrased, bullied person their whole life. The only one out of my high school population I didn’t hate was him. He was with his friends, not even noticing me. I wished he would.
It was a shame he didn’t know that he was one of the reasons I cried at night. One of the many reasons I cut myself. He passed me and I pulled down my sleeves to make sure he didn’t see my scars. If he did, he wouldn’t care. I knew that for a fact. He’d seen them before. I slipped the love note in his locker before he noticed.I’d just have to go crazy thinking of his possible reactions.He had to know I loved him.