The alarm blares at 6:30 AM, cutting through my dreamless sleep like a blade.
I slap it off and blink up at the ceiling, the dim glow of the streetlamp outside barely lighting my room.
I groan, rolling over, fingers fumbling to shut the damn thing off. The bed creaks beneath me a thin mattress on an old wooden frame, the kind that groans under the slightest movement. The air is cold, biting at my skin where the blanket has slipped off.
I pull it back up, debating whether I can squeeze in just five more minutes.
But I know better.
I don't have that luxury.
With a resigned sigh, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is still dark, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of the streetlamp outside my window. I blink a few times, my vision adjusting, and push my unruly curly brown hair out of my face.
It's a mess, like always. No matter what I do, it refuses to be tamed.
I should get up.
But for a moment, I just sit there, hunched over, hands hanging between my knees.
God, I'm exhausted.
Not the kind of exhaustion that sleep can fix. The kind that sinks into your bones, settling deep, dragging you down no matter how hard you try to shake it off.
But that's nothing new.
I push the covers off and stand, stretching the stiffness from my limbs. My dad's already gone I can tell by the silence in the house. He leaves early for work and comes home late. That's just how it is.
We barely see each other these days.
The wooden floor is cold against my feet as I cross the room. It's small just enough space for a bed, a rickety dresser, and a tiny desk littered with papers and textbooks. The walls are bare, the paint peeling in some places.
Nothing fancy.
But it's home.
I grab my towel and head to the bathroom.
The water is freezing, like always.
It shocks me awake as it hits my skin, making me suck in a sharp breath. No time to waste. I scrub quickly, efficiently, washing away the remnants of sleep. The mirror above the sink is cracked in one corner, distorting my reflection slightly.
Still, I can see enough.
My hair's a mess of brown curls, always falling into my face no matter how much I push it back.
My skin's tan, a little dull under the shitty bathroom light, and my dark brown eyes.
I'm lean, not built, just wiry from too many skipped meals and miles walked.
I look tired. There are shadows under my eyes, my face thinner than it should be. The stress, the long hours, the constant pressure to keep up it all shows.
I dry off, running my fingers through my wild curls, trying to make them look somewhat presentable. They just spring back into chaos.
---
Back in my room, I pull on my school uniform.
The white shirt isn't as crisp as it used to be, slightly faded from too many washes, but it's clean. The trousers are a little worn at the seams, but they still fit. My blazer used to have a nice shine to it now it's dull, a little faded.
Then, the shoes.
They're not new. Haven't been in months. The soles are worn down, the edges frayed. But they're sturdy, and that's what matters.
I lace them up, testing the fit.
They'll last.
I just have to make sure they do.
There's no breakfast waiting for me.
There never is.
But I grab an apple from the counter before heading out.
I step outside, locking the door behind me.
The sun had just risen , the city just beginning to stir. The streets are mostly empty, save for a few early risers factory workers, vendors setting up stalls, stray dogs nosing through the trash.
I start walking.
School is forty minutes away by foot. I could take the bus, but that would cost money.
Money I don't have.
So I walk.
The rhythm of my steps is steady, familiar. The same path, the same cracks in the pavement, the same half-faded graffiti on the walls.
By the time I get to school, the courtyard is already filling up.
Bratty Rich kids!.
They step out of their sleek and expensive cars.
Their uniforms perfectly pressed. Their shoes brand new. Their laughter light, careless.
I don't belong here.
And they make sure I know it.
I feel the stares as I walk past. The whispers. The quiet snickers.
I keep my head down, shoulders squared.
I won't give them the satisfaction.
I just have to get through the day.
Just like every other.
I move through the crowd like a ghost.
Until I hear the familiar sneer.
"Noel," someone calls from behind me, dragging out my name like it's a joke. I don't turn around. I don't have to. I already know who it is.
Daniel Reeves.
The golden boy. Captain of the soccer team, son of some wealthy CEO, practically worshipped by half the school.
"Still wearing those vintage shoes?" he snickers. "Damn, those things must have more history than this school."
His group laughs, the sound cutting through the morning air like a blade.
I keep walking.
Because I've learned something over the years if you react, they win.
If you let them see that it bothers you, it only gets worse.
So I pretend I don't hear them. Pretend that every word doesn't dig into my skin like a splinter.
It works.
Sort of.
I keep my head down, grip my books tighter, and pretend I don't hear them. I remind myself that none of this will matter once I get out of here. Once I graduate, get a scholarship to a real university, leave this town behind.
But then I see her.
And for a moment, everything else fades away.
Evelyn Sinclair.
She's standing by her locker, talking to a friend. Laughing.
She's beautiful in a way that doesn't feel real. Dark hair cascading over her shoulders, skin pale and smooth, lips curved into a soft smile. She has this air about her, this effortless grace, like nothing in the world has ever truly touched her.
She doesn't see me.
Of course, she doesn't.
I'm nothing to her. Just another background character in her perfect little world.
But that's going to change.
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