Milo:

I wake up to the melodic tune of my phone alarm, pulling me out of the grip of yet another nightmare. Groggily, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, blinking in the dim light as I notice the covers tangled on the floor. Must've been a bad one. I can't remember the details- just the lingering sense of dread clinging to me like a heavy fog, the unsettling feeling that lingers long after the dream itself has faded away.

I look around my messy room, the walls white and bare, the furniture scarce. When I left, I could only take my desk, the few clothes I could fit in my bag, and my mattress. Thank god for owning a shitty pickup truck. While home is no paradise, at least it's a safe space- an island of isolation.

The bong that's sitting on my end table calls to me, and I give into her temptation, taking a fat rip from it. The smoke fills my lungs, swirling around my chest, burning in the best way. I exhale the smoke, and with it all the troubles that plague me.

Finally feeling ready enough, I stand up and lazily throw on one of the few shirts I own, pairing it with some beat-up jeans. Not ripped, though- I learned that lesson on the first day. The school made me change into something from the lost and found because of the "holes in my pants". Happy first day of school: here's a pair of pants that definitely belonged to a girl!

I pull my jacket over my shirt, being careful around my arms as the fabric has a tendency to snag on my cuts. With a quick shake of my head to set my hair in place, I grab my bag and venture out.

God, if you're real, please don't let that annoying little cheerleader bitch bother me today. Give me one moment of peace. That isn't too much to ask for, is it? It's been a few months since our first few interactions, and I'm hoping to keep it at a minimum.

My face blushes as I think about the fact that she found my notebook, my very personal notebook with the creatures from my nightmares that stay with me well into the morning. And, because the universe hates me, the notebook with the drawing I did of her.

I don't know why I drew her. Sure, she's beautiful- there's no denying that- but beyond the surface, she's infuriating; Absolutely frustrating. Something about her gets under my skin in a way I can't quite shake, and I'd rather lick glass than spend another minute with Miss Perfect. She's everything wrong with our generation: pretentious, holier-than-thou, and coasting through life. Cheerleader or not, I don't think I've ever seen her lift a finger to actually work- she just runs her mouth to her so-called 'bestie.'

The school comes into view, and I suddenly notice how tight my grip is on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to loosen up, rubbing my hands to bring back feeling. As I pull into the student parking lot, I'm constantly hitting the brakes, gritting my teeth as another asshole steps right in front of my truck, like they have a death wish.

When I'm finally parked, I notice from the corner of my eye Miss Perfect walking up the road, her bags nearly pulling her towards the ground. My eyes follow her as she struggles up the hill, misery plastered on her normally devious looking face.

With a shrug, I ignore her and make my way inside, weaving through the sea of kids. The loud talking and laughter overstimulates me, and when I finally get to my locker, I open it quickly and shove my head in it, thankful for the semi-muffledness.

Once I'm done getting my supplies, I walk into my art class. My teacher calls me aside as soon as I walk in, waving her hand at me, bracelets jingling. I curse quietly to myself, knowing exactly where this conversation is going.

"Milo!" Ms. Lennox calls to me, and I shuffle towards her desk. She is the most stereotypical art teacher, glasses around her neck attached by a gaudy string; Her clothes are always eccentric and bright, and her hair is perpetually in a state of disarray. "I didn't hear anything from you about your parents coming for parent/teacher orientation! Will they be making it?"

I shuffle in place, shrugging. "They probably won't come," I admit quietly, before looking up from the ground, the room suddenly feeling entirely too small. I tug on the collar of my shirt, suffocated by both the fabric and the question. "I live on my own, we don't... We don't, uh, talk."

Ms. Lennox's face falls for a half a second, before her smile is back at a hundred. "Well, I'm sorry, I did not know that. You must have had this conversation a few times, huh?" Sympathy laces her voice, and it makes me want to drop dead.

"Yeah," I admit quietly, shrugging. "I get it. It's not normal."

She waves a hand dramatically. "Nonsense. I'll make sure to note it with the staff so nobody else should bother you going forward."

I thank her quietly, a pang of warmth spreading through me at the rare kindness instead of cruelty. I slip into my seat and pull out my sketchbook, feeling a familiar sense of relief. This is the only class where I actually look forward to showing up. Ms. Lennox is a breath of fresh air, her enthusiasm contagious, and here, I get to immerse myself in the only thing that truly gives me serotonin: drawing.

"Today, we will be drawing on four quadrants," Ms. Lennox says once the class is settled in. She draws on the board how she wants us to, before pointing into each box aggressively with her marker. "One for your fears, one for your desires, one for your failures, and one for your accomplishments."

I grimace at the thought of this exercise, and know I could take it two ways: Draw what I think she would want to see, so I don't get a call from the school psychologist. Or, be my true self and draw how I actually feel.

I decide to do the latter, as Ms. Lennox seems the type to accept art of all forms. The fear box is easy; I draw the monsters I have done so many times, with all their fangs and claws, towering even taller than me. I make them shadowy, so they're shrouded in mystery and dream-like.

My mind draws a blank over the desires box, and I skip it for now, moving to a more familiar feeling- failure. God, there are too many to choose from. My pencil moves on the paper freely, and before I realize it, I'm drawing my family. My mom, dad and sister are all on one side, while I'm on the other. I draw them faceless, because even if it's only been a year, I'm already starting to forget what they look like.

Accomplishments is also a tough box to fill. The only thing that comes to mind is the fact that I've successfully moved out, away from the chaos, into my own safe haven. I draw my shitty apartment, quickly doodling messy clothes on the floor and the barely decorated rooms.

"Desire is the tough one, huh?" Ms. Lennox suddenly appears next to me, and I drop my pencil in embarrassment, looking up at her. I nod, urging the blush not to creep across my cheeks. "Think about the one thing you want, the one thing you yearn for. What calls to you?"

With that, she moves onto the next student, placing a hand on their arm as she praises them. I sigh, looking back down to my paper, to the empty desire box. Without thinking, I quickly write "Kindness" rather than drawing anything. How can someone draw kindness who's never experienced it? I put my pencil down, my heart heavy, and look around the room to see that most everyone else is already done.

"Wonderful," Ms. Lennox says, clasping her hands together. She beams at us. "What wonderful artists you all are. Now, who would like to share theirs? I won't make you if you don't want to, but it could be good to get these feelings out."

A few kids raise their hands, but I sink into my seat, hoping if I go low enough I'll simply evaporate. I barely like that Ms. Lennox sees my drawings, let alone a class full of judgmental kids. My classmates go up one by one, and our teacher makes us give them snaps each time they're done sharing. Finally, the bell rings, and kids collect their stuff, starting to file out.

"You are all so brilliant and creative," Ms. Lennox praises, waving to us as we leave. I smile awkwardly at her, the action something I'm not used to anymore. She gives my arm a squeeze as I walk past. "You are so talented, Milo. Keep up with it, and I can see you getting very far."

I bow my head as I leave, but the smallest of smiles plays on my lips as I walk to my next period. History, one of the classes with Miss Perfect. Great.

She's already there when I get into the classroom, yapping to her friends, her head thrown back as she cackles. Ava, I think her name is, looks up at me as I walk past her, going quiet as I sit down in my seat. I hear her friends giggle, and do everything to ignore them.

Ava's hair is gathered into a messy ponytail, with strands escaping haphazardly around her face. The faint scent of her perfume drifts across the room, reaching me even from this distance. Her redheaded friend leans over as whispers something in her ear, earning her a swift whack from Ava.

I watch them interact for a little while longer, taking in the way Ava's nose scrunches and her dimples deepen when she laughs; the way her mouth creases around the corners as she blabs on about who knows what. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I pull out a new sketchbook. I've learned my lesson- Don't take a very personal notebook to school, and don't draw your classmates. Especially the crazy ones.

I mindlessly doodle, letting my pen drift across the page, sketching flowers, trees, and twisting vines, as Mrs. Thompson's monotonous voice fades into the background of her history lecture. My old school covered all of this already, so I can coast through this class, turning it into an unofficial second art period. But when I glance down at my drawing, my heart skips a beat. My eyes widen as I realize what I've been sketching- Ava. Her baggy sweater, her messy hair, her hands frozen mid-gesture as she talks. Panic tightens in my chest, and I quickly crumple the page.

What did I just say? I think to myself, sticking the paper in the side of my backpack. When I get home, I'll burn it, or flush it. Anything to get her out of my head.

There's nothing even remotely intriguing about her, she's just another popular girl who likes to treat people's emotions like a game. It's probably just because she's the only one who's really talked to me at this school- even if it wasn't genuine.

I push the thoughts away as I focus back into what our teacher is saying. Something about a test coming up, but I can't be too sure. The kids around me are whispering too loudly to really hear. We're each handed a sheet of paper with what's going to be on said test, and told to study off of it.

As soon as we're dismissed, I nearly bolt out of the classroom, gripping the straps of my backpack tightly as if they're holding me together. I exit the classroom, thankful nobody bothered me me today. I reach my locker and fumble with the combination, swapping out my books for the worst period yet: Algebra 2. The weight of the upcoming class sits heavy in my stomach, and I slam the locker shut, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

With a heavy sigh, I tug my hood over my head, letting it cast a shadow over my face as I head toward class. The room is empty when I arrive, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. I slide into my seat, hugging the edge of the desk to keep as much distance between me and Ava. Every part of me burns with the silent intention to make her feel the way she made me feel- small, distant, unimportant. If keeping my distance is all I can do to get that message across, then so be it.

Ava takes her seat a moment later, not saying a word as she pulls out her books. She's suspiciously quiet, her usual upbeat attitude subdued today. I think back to her walking up the hill, and how miserable she looked, and it tracks with the expression that's currently on her face.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and all those in between," Mr. Warren starts after doing roll call. He smiles at us, the type of smile that makes me worry what's coming next. "We are doing our first project of the year! You will partner up with your neighbors again, to further expand your relationships!"

Fuck, I think to myself, taking a peek at Ava, who's face is abnormally pale. You're a fucking sham, God.

Our teacher explains the premise of the project, saying he wants poster boards, brightly colored and nicely decorated. He explains that we'll have time to work on the actual concept of our boards in class, but they should be assembled outside of school.

The class erupts in complaints, a few of the popular kids begging to be switched, but Mr. Warren simply waves them off. "You will thank me later for helping you make new lifelong friends," he says with a grin, clapping his hands. "You may now begin to conceptualize."

Neither Ava nor myself say anything for a while, the tension palpable. She finally breaks first, clearing her throat and turning towards me. "This is not ideal," she says quietly, and I look up at her with a glare.

"It would have been fine had you just left me alone," I snap, my voice low but sharp. Anger bubbles in my stomach, and my fingers tighten around the sleeves of my jacket, trembling with frustration. "But you just had to insert yourself into my life, right? Your friends told you to do it? You and your little clique- you all walk around like your shit don't stink. You think you're so important, but you're just a stuck up bitch."

Ava's face goes stoic, unreadable as she absorbs my words. After my barrage is over, she straightens up, pursing her lips. "I'm sorry," she manages, and I notice her eyes glaze over slightly. With that, she raises her hand and asks to be excused, before quickly shuffling from the room.

"Fuck," I mumble softly to myself, running a hand through my hair in frustration. I dig my nails into my palm hard, leaving crescent moon shaped marks in their wake, until I've broken skin. The blood gets under my nails, but I don't stop until I can't take the pain anymore. I wipe my palms on my pants, thankful for the dark jeans I'm wearing today. With a frustrated sigh, I open my notebook and begin doom doodling until Ava comes back.