I hate school. The phrase feels too weak for the churning pit in my stomach every Sunday night. High school, specifically. They feed us this lie about it being the 'best time of your life,' a golden era you'll look back on with nostalgic laughs. Bullshit.
It's a performance. Every morning, plastering on a face that says 'I'm fine, nothing to see here.' Navigating hallways packed with people who size you up in microseconds, ready to dissect your weaknesses the moment you turn away. A place where teachers are paid to educate but mostly just manage chaos, pretending not to see the smaller cruelties bloom in the corners, as long as the main act stays 'orderly.'
It's like being permanently stuck outside the only group chat that matters. Everyone else is sharing memes and inside jokes, their notifications buzzing constantly with connection, while you're just... there. Visible, but ignored.
The jealousy is a tight band around my chest. Maybe if I wasn't so short, always looking up. Maybe if I didn't stumble over my own feet, over my own words. Maybe if my shoulders didn't instinctively hunch every time a voice got loud nearby.
Maybe if I could just disappear into my textbooks, make myself small and quiet and academic, none of this would matter.
"Okay, class. Before we proceed to the discussion on mitosis, I want you all to look at the board," Mr. Dela Cruz, our biology teacher, droned, his voice flat as he began sketching the cell cycle stages.
His back was turned. The low squeak of his marker was the only sound for a second, then I heard it – the distinct scuff of cheap sneakers dragging behind my desk. A familiar cold washed over me.
A voice, too close.
"Hey. Give me your phone."
I didn't have to look. The heavy presence, the smug undertone – it was Daniel Montefalco. The guy who wasn't really the class clown, just the one who used 'jokes' to put others down. The self-appointed king of our little social pond, built on a shaky foundation of swagger and borrowed muscle.
Last time he "borrowed" my phone, he drained my load buying game credits. I ate instant noodles for three days straight and told my grandma I was on a 'diet.'
"Didn't you... didn't you get caught last time?" I mumbled, the words sticking in my throat, barely audible.
A sharp bark of laughter. His, and a couple of his usual hangers-on. Never with me.
"Oh? Look who found their voice," he sneered, the humor draining instantly, leaving something sharp and dangerous. "I said give me your phone, idiot."
"I don't—"
WHAM.
My head snapped sideways. The desk shuddered, scattering pens. My cheek stung, a hot, furious burn blooming there. A collective gasp rippled through the room, a single held breath. But no one moved. They just watched.
This. This is the core of why I hate school.
After class, I sat there for a long time, just tracing the new spiderweb crack on the corner of my phone screen. Daniel hadn't even bothered to delete the purchase notification. He'd just smirked, tossed it back, and walked off to high-five his buddies like he'd just won a championship.
At least I got it back. Even if it felt dirtied.
My real day started now anyway. I walked straight out after the final bell shrieked, ignoring the periphery – the sideways glances, the whispers that seemed to follow me, the way the girls from the 'in' crowd looked straight through me as if I were inconvenient furniture. I got home, locked my bedroom door like it was a vault against the outside world, slid the cracked phone under my pillow like some kind of pathetic security blanket, and opened my laptop.
Escape.
I pulled up the latest episode of Blue Box, the romance anime I'd been surviving the week for. God, it was so good, so pure, so completely other than my reality. Watching the protagonist navigate awkward crushes and brutal sports training, failing but getting back up, clumsy but earnest… he was everything I wanted to be. Soft and determined, flawed but somehow radiating hope. It hurt in the best possible way, watching him live a life where effort felt like it meant something.
I blinked. The screen clock glowed 3:04 AM.
"Seriously?" I whispered, already feeling the crushing weight of missed sleep. "I'm dead."
6:40 AM.
My alarm was a siren song of regret. My brain felt like soggy cardboard. Blue Box was fire, yes, but karma was a harsh mistress, and she had a morning shift.
I scrambled, yanking on my uniform, skipping breakfast – no time, no appetite anyway. I burst out the front door, bag slung haphazardly, textbooks flapping like injured birds, the zipper half undone. All I could think was: Don't lock the gate. Don't be late. Please.
And then, rounding the corner onto the main path, running blind...
CRASH.
I hit something – someone – solid and went down hard. My bag exploded, contents scattering across the concrete. My elbow took the brunt of the fall, sending a sharp pain shooting up my arm. I gasped, winded.
"I'm so sor—" I started, pushing myself up.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" another voice cut in, soft and clear, like a perfect bell.
Wait. That voice...
Painfully, I pushed myself higher, looking up. And there she was. Framed by the morning light, looking genuinely distressed, hands hovering like she wanted to help but wasn't sure how.
Mia Santos. The Mia Santos. Student Council Secretary, the girl with the perfect grades and the even more perfect, effortlessly neat ponytail. The one who always looked like she'd stepped straight out of a fluffy, low-stakes slice-of-life anime.
I just stared.
She was already reaching out, offering a hand. "Are you okay?" she asked, her brow furrowed with concern, a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh escaping her. "I wasn't looking at all, I'm really sorry!"
She was apologizing? To me?
She helped me up, her hand surprisingly steady, her fingers cool against my scraped arm.
"Wait..." she tilted her head slightly, her gaze shifting from concern to something else, a flicker of recognition. "You're... Kira?"
My breath hitched. My mouth went dry. My own name, said by her, like she actually knew who I was. Like I wasn't just part of the blurry background furniture of this school.
"You're Kira Rivera, right?" she clarified, that impossibly kind smile still there, waiting for an answer.