Your arms are pulled up to your chest as you sit in the very last desk at the far corner of the room. Across the cleanly tiled floors are a group of kids, laughing, smiling, tossing their cares to the wind because they need not worry about being accepted.
The charm on your bracelet clangs against your folders as you prepare for class. It's too loud; too loud for you to stay unnoticed. They always notice, they don't miss any of your awkward blunders or moments of misspeaking.
The blond one, the one in the middle of their circle, turns and lifts her lips in a smirk, about to speak. You can only guess what is on the tip of her tongue. The usually sarcastic laugh or biting remark? Or maybe something more personal, like an original insult, created and formed in her pretty little head just for you.
You wish you could just speak up and insult yourself, instead of her. With their help, you've learned to see all the faults you posses, and every mistake makes a siren, blaring at you, cursing at you, forcing you to keep these moments tucked away in your mind until the nights when you can't sleep and they come back and plague you.
The bell rings, a shrill sound that draws too much attention to you. The bell is above your head, and instinctively, the kids who have so far ignored your presence turn and look at you.
You hide yourself in the dents and curves of the attached desk and chair. You know you're still in plain sight, that they can see you, that hiding only makes them laugh heartily. But cowering into yourself always feels safe.
The teacher walks in, talking about the lesson before assigning the days in-class work. From your seat, with your head bent down as far as possible, lyrics and melodies in your head to push out the sound of shuffling, you can see feet in front of your desk. Not just in front, but to the side. You can picture them, in a perfect square of expensive leathers and cloth, waiting.
You almost lift your head. But that's what they want. Or maybe they want you to pretend to ignore them, your tense posture visible through the cotton of your shirt and your hand gripping your desk with the tension of your shoulders.
A small piece of rubber hits your head, and you can't help but look up.
They're waiting for you. With another rubber band aimed, they let it go. You notice now that the teacher is out of the room. No barriers.
The elastic hits squarely in your right eye. You bite back the howl of pain and wipe at the tears running a watery track down your cheeks. The salt stains the collar of your new shirt, the one you'd begged to get so you could fit in. You were so gullible, thinking a simple change of clothes would make them want to stop.
The teacher walks in and doesn't notice the still snickering students, nor your shoulders shaking slightly as you hunch over your desk.
It seemed as if the more you tried for their approval, the more they hated you. You could see why: you weren't pretty like them, you focused too much on small, unimportant things, you didn't dress or talk like them, and you posses only one talent: cowering. Still, a small part of you longed for the acceptance, with the calls and emails and hangouts and laughing that came with genuine friendships. But you don't deserve happiness. You're worthless, just like the salt-stained shirt shaking with you.
--
Years later, you stutter in your speech as you greet the students in front of you. You share a common goal with them: to get to your class early and hopefully make a good impression.
You're hunched over yourself again, a habit you've kept. You glance, paranoid at every laugh behind you. You second-guess yourself: the way you've dressed, the way you've fixed your hair, and the shoes on your feet, which are cutting into you painfully with each hurried step.
You don't smile and talk with other people, you prefer to stay within yourself, safely. If you don't put yourself out there, they can't hurt you.
You find it hard to trust in anything that isn't a concrete item: like the book clenched in your fist or your phone, buzzing in your back pocket. Even though you'd made friends, it was only time before they realized what a waste you are and leave, like all the others.
Sure, this group was more stubborn: they didn't agree with you when you said you were worthless, ugly inside and out and belonged buried in the cold dirt, out of sight. But it would only be matters of time and space before you would see their retreating footsteps.
In the classroom, you stand at the front of the room. Someone has already taken the farthest back seat, and you breathe harsher. That's your spot.
She's hunched over, writing furiously. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt cover most of her hands. She's like a ball of tension and fabric, you suppose.
You hesitantly walk and take the seat next to her. She looks up slightly, her hood masking her face. She recognizes your posture and relaxes slightly in her seat.
Class starts, and a piece of paper hits your arm. Terror makes it's way into your body, wondering if this is the start of the cycle. Will things follow the same pattern? You aren't sure you can take all of that again.
The paper is folded into a neat square, creased and worn at the corners. You carefully pick it up, as if it may bite you. It's a note, written in small, neat print.
You read it, and look back at the girl sitting next to you. She's stiff in her seat, staring straight ahead with a frown dominating her lips.
Would you like my seat?
Your pen scratches across the paper and you pass the note back, placing it in the corner of her desk nearest to you.
No, you can keep it.
Sta.sh
Peaceful 
s, love (:
