Chapter 1: Outcast

I fell in love early in high school. My girlfriend was the top student in our class.

Every time I saw her smile at me in the hallway, my heart thudded so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. She wasn't just smart; she was the kind of person who always raised her hand first, never missed an assignment, and was somehow still cool about it. Everyone knew her name. It felt impossible and amazing that we were together, especially when I was just an average kid from a single-parent home, the kind most people overlooked in the hallway.

Because of this, I became the target of resentment from a lot of classmates and pretty much all the teachers. They all said I was holding her back. Ms. Jefferson handed me back my essay with a tight smile, her feedback clipped: “Try harder next time.”

It was like suddenly everyone thought I was the villain in her story. Sometimes, walking through the cafeteria, I could hear the whispers. Even the teachers looked at me sideways, like I was the reason she might slip up one day.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Baker, talked to me several times, even paying out of his own pocket to take me to a late-night diner for burgers and fries, sharing stories from his own life. His advice could be summed up in a single sentence: “If you really care about her, do what’s best for her. At your age, breaking up is what’s best for her.”

I’ll never forget sitting across from him in that cracked vinyl booth, the smell of onion rings heavy in the air, his face serious under the neon. Mr. Baker’s hands trembled as he fiddled with a napkin, his voice low. There was a kind of sad earnestness in the way he said it, like he truly believed it was for our own good. He even told me about his high school sweetheart, how he let her go for college. It felt oddly personal. I wanted to tell him he didn’t know anything about us, but the words stuck in my throat.

I could tell he genuinely meant well.

There was no malice in his words, just the tired concern of someone who thought they’d seen how these things played out. But it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

When I got home, I suggested we break up. She shook her head, meeting my eyes. “No way. I’m not breaking up with you.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She just looked at me with that steady gaze and said, “No. I don’t want that.” It was the first time I saw a flash of stubbornness in her, and it almost made me smile, even while my heart ached.

The next week, when I got back to school, Mr. Baker rearranged the seating chart.

My stomach dropped as I scanned the chart, my name shoved to the last row like a punishment. I didn’t think much of it at first, until I saw my name at the back of the room, and hers up front. The distance felt like a punishment, a silent wedge driven between us by adult hands.

I was moved to the last row, and my girlfriend was placed in the very first row.

From the back, I could only catch the outline of her ponytail, the way she leaned over her notes, always diligent. The air felt heavier, like there was a glass wall between us now.

Worse still, her new desk partner was my well-known rival in love.

His name was Tyler Martinez. His sneakers were always spotless, and he wore that varsity jacket like it was a crown. Everyone in school seemed to know he had a crush on her. He was the type to get straight A's without trying and captain of the math team, hair always just right. He’d always looked at me like I was something he’d scrape off his sneakers.

He had excellent grades—second only to my girlfriend in the class. In the eyes of many, they were a perfect match.

I could almost hear the sighs of relief from our teachers, the way they watched the two of them like it was finally all falling into place, the balance restored.

As expected, he started openly pursuing her, with the silent approval of our classmates and the not-so-subtle encouragement of our teachers.

He’d bring her coffee in the morning, help her carry her backpack, even save her a seat in the cafeteria. No one stopped him. No one even pretended to notice.

Now, Mr. Baker had gotten his wish.

It felt like I’d been cast out of my own life. Everywhere I looked, it was as if the entire school had silently agreed this was the way things should be.

All the teachers, as if they’d planned it together, would assign the two of them to decorate the classroom bulletin board or send them to meetings as a pair. Even at the Christmas talent show, the music teacher gave them a special spot, letting them perform a duet of Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect” as the finale. During rehearsals, they spent countless lunch hours and evenings alone in the music room, working on their choreography.

I’d walk past the music room after hours, catching glimpses of them laughing together through the frosted glass window. The sound of their voices and the familiar song echoed in my mind long after I got home, the melody haunting me as I lay awake in bed.

After Christmas break, the two of them became the talk of the school, officially recognized as the school’s golden couple.

Their photos started popping up on classmates’ Instagram stories, tagged with heart emojis and #powercouple. People said they were destined for prom king and queen.

My girlfriend either truly didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She seemed oblivious to all these changes. Every day, I drifted through life like a zombie, a clown under a spotlight, shame burning through me every time I walked into the classroom.

It was like I was the ghost at the feast, invisible except for when someone wanted a punchline. My feet felt heavy, every step into that fluorescent-lit classroom another reminder of what I’d lost—or never really had.

The most ridiculous part was that my rival’s birthday happened to fall on the same day as mine, but I had no idea.

Some weird cosmic joke, I guess. I found out the worst way possible.

On my birthday, after evening study hall, the class president asked everyone to stay behind.

She was always organizing things, clipboard in hand, her voice bright and commanding. "Everybody, just a sec!" she said, making it sound like something exciting was about to happen.

Then, some classmates turned off the lights, and everyone started singing the birthday song together.

The smell of chocolate icing hit me first. For a split second, I let myself believe the cake was for me. Stupid, I know. The darkness buzzed with excitement and the off-key chorus. For a split second, I thought maybe—just maybe—it was for me. My heart stuttered in hope.

In that moment, I couldn’t hold back my tears, my cheeks flushed, every inch of my skin warmed by the attention.

I felt like I was floating, the kind of rush you get when you think, for once, you’re seen and celebrated. The world spun around me in a glow of candlelight and song.

But when the lights came back on, I realized all the eyes, all the singing, had never been meant for me.

They crowded around Tyler, shoving a cake in front of him, handing him cards and gifts. I stood off to the side, completely forgotten.

I forced a smile, shoved my hands in my pockets, and slipped out before anyone could see my face.

My burning tears instantly froze with embarrassment.

The shame stung like ice water dumped over my head. I blinked fast, pretending I was just rubbing my eyes from the brightness. No one noticed, or if they did, they looked away.

I slipped out quietly.

I ducked out the side door into the cold night, the distant sound of laughter following me all the way to the empty parking lot. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, shivering—not just from the wind.

Inside, the laughter and celebration echoed behind me for a long, long time…

It was one of those nights when the world felt like it was spinning without me. I leaned against the school’s brick wall, listening to the muffled music and cheers, feeling like the last kid picked for dodgeball all over again.

After that, I really started to feel inferior. I avoided people, stopped talking, hated school, and grew afraid of crowds…

Every morning, I hesitated before walking in the doors, my backpack feeling heavier. I’d keep my head down in the halls, avoiding eye contact, wishing I could just disappear.

I skipped classes, wandered aimlessly, disappeared for days, and gave up on myself…

There were days I’d walk by the river, watching the water swirl, thinking about nothing. Sometimes I’d lose track of time until it got dark, my phone buzzing with missed calls. It was like I was fading away, one piece at a time.

My girlfriend tried many times to reach out to me, kept calling, sent me long messages.

She left voicemails, sent me memes, and tried to make plans, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Even her concern felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

She said she noticed something was wrong with me, but didn’t know why I had changed so much.

She’d write, "Are you okay? You’re not yourself," and I wanted to tell her everything, but the words stuck in my throat. I just left her on read.

God, she didn’t even know why I had become like this. A crushing loneliness swept over me, making me feel as if I no longer belonged in this world.

It was like watching your own life through a dirty window, unable to open it, unable to shout for help. The loneliness was so heavy it pressed the air out of my lungs.

It wasn’t until a week later that my mom found me. Seeing her, I felt a wave of guilt. She must have been exhausted these past few days—her hair messy and greasy, dark circles under her eyes, her voice hoarse.

She hugged me so tightly my ribs ached. Her relief was obvious, but so was her exhaustion. I could smell the cheap diner coffee on her jacket and the worry in her voice when she said my name.

Mr. Baker, as if he’d found ammunition, said I had been absent for too long without a reason and wanted to persuade me to drop out.

He called us in after school, his office smelling of burnt coffee and old chalk. He listed my absences with clipped annoyance, hinting that my time at school might be up. It sounded like he was trying to save face in front of the other teachers.

My mom was terrified at the mention of expulsion. To her, being asked to leave meant being expelled, meant losing any chance at college.

For my mom, education was everything. It was her American dream, her hope for a better future. She clutched her purse tighter as she realized what was at stake.

In front of everyone, she suddenly dropped to her knees and begged Mr. Baker to withdraw the expulsion notice.

The room went dead silent. Even the secretary at the front desk looked up. I had never seen my mom do anything like that before—never beg, never plead. My heart shattered, and I wanted to vanish.

In that moment, I saw my always strong, capable mom humble herself before others, showing her most desperate side. I knew it wasn’t that she had lost her strength or her edge, but that her weakness was now in someone else’s hands—and that weakness was me.

It hit me all at once: I was the reason she was on her knees, desperate and vulnerable in a place where she’d always held her head high. Shame flooded through me.

A crowd gathered, watching, whispering about me, saying I deserved it, that I was ungrateful, that I got what was coming to me…

Some students hung back by the lockers, murmuring, their faces a blur of judgment. I heard snippets: "What a mess," "Poor woman," "That kid never fit in anyway."

Seeing Mr. Baker unmoved, my mom ran to the car and grabbed a couple of grocery bags, shoving them into his hands: 'We raise chickens at home—these eggs are from our backyard. Please, just give my kid another chance.'

My cheeks burned as I saw her return with those grocery bags, her hands shaking, offering up what little we had—a neighbor’s eggs, the closest thing to a bribe we could muster in a small town. It was a desperate, old-fashioned plea. She’d never been one for words, but her actions spoke volumes.

But maybe the bag wasn’t tied well—a few eggs suddenly rolled out and cracked all over the floor.

The egg yolks oozed across the tile, bright yellow against the dull gray floor. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere behind me, sharp and mean. The yolks splattered on the office linoleum, the smell sharp and immediate. People snickered, others looked away. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

More and more teachers and classmates gathered to watch the scene.

It was a spectacle now. Even the janitor paused, mop in hand, unsure if he should clean up or just watch like the others.

All of them, with their cold eyes and superior attitudes, crushed me beneath their feet, all to protect the true couple they supported in their hearts.

I could feel their eyes, their silent judgments. It was like being on trial, found guilty without a chance to defend myself, all because I didn't fit the perfect picture.

In the end, Mr. Baker, maybe afraid things would get out of hand, finally agreed to my mom’s plea.

He gave a half-hearted sigh and said, "Fine, he can stay—for now." The relief in the room was palpable, but my humiliation was complete.

I returned to that classroom—the one that had brought me endless pain, the one I had tried to escape so many times. But for my mom’s sake, I had to go back, even if it meant dying in that classroom.

My feet felt like they were wading through wet cement. Every desk, every poster on the wall seemed to be watching me. But I owed it to my mom; quitting was no longer an option.

In a rush of anger, I ran up to the front of the room, looked around at everyone, and bowed deeply to Mr. Baker, tears streaming down my face: 'I’m sorry. I screwed up. I’m so, so sorry.'

I bent at the waist, not caring how it looked, tears splashing onto the polished floor. I heard gasps and a few uncomfortable coughs. I must have looked ridiculous, but I couldn't stop myself.

As I bowed again and again, tears splattered onto the floor.

My voice broke with each apology, my vision blurred. I was apologizing for everything—myself, my existence, my failures. For once, I couldn’t hold it in.

I knew, deep down, these tears were not only for regret and apology, but even more for humiliation and feeling like I wasn’t good enough.

Somewhere inside, I wished someone would pull me up and tell me it was okay. But all I felt was the sting of being small and unworthy, my dignity spilled out for all to see.