P H I L ' S P O V

"No."

"Yes, you're going!" My mother chastised, running her hands through her dark blonde hair in frustration.

"No! Dad, say something!"

"You're going," he responded, not acknowledging me as he said so- instead keeping his eyes on the TV. I frowned at him.

"Phil, really, it's just a support group and only for a few months. Maybe you could even make some friends! Or some better ones for that matter," Mum offered.

"I've got four tattoos, a lip piercing, and a nose piercing. So why send me to some shitty little therapy club when I'm not even approachable?"

"Philip Michael Lester, watch your mouth."

"It starts tonight at seven," Mum spoke, ignoring dad scolding me. "You're going whether you like it or not, got it?" I groaned.

"Got it." I trudged up the stairs.

I found a pair of clothes, changing. My bare chest was painted over with scratches and bruises from nightly routines with my crew, stitches in my right arm from being cut once. I had told my mom I was simply mugged.

Bryony is eighteen and Wirrow is twenty. I guess that's why Wirrow's the leader of our group, since he's the oldest.

To my parents I was just a teenager with a bad group of friends, but little did they know their son was wanted for mass murder and robbery.

An hour later I was ready, eyeing my sweater and jeans, shrugging. At least my tattoos are covered.

"Phil, hurry up!" Mum yelled from downstairs. I hurried downstairs, fixing up my hair and going to my car. I drove without music, playing out about a hundred scenarios in my head on the way there.

I stood in the parking lot, looking up at the view in front of me.

It was a small brick building- maybe two stories, if not then with an attic. The paint on the doors was chipping and all the lights were on, people wandering around inside.

I let out a deep breath and shuffled inside, ignoring the gazes I caught from the people beside me. Others went to a different room where as some began to sit down in chairs that formed a circle.

I searched for an empty seat and froze up when I saw who it was next to.

Is that who I think it is?

I grabbed the photo from my pocket, looking at the picture then the boy. It was him. Daniel James Howell, everyone. A victorious grin snuck its way to my lips.

I gaped at him, admiring the way he looked. He had his head resting in his hands with his elbows placed on his lap, sitting in his chair anxiously.

Except there was one thing that specifically made him the odd one out. A flower crown.

A fucking flower crown?

I held in my laugh, exhaling and walking over next to him.

"Can I sit here?" I asked, forcing a friendly smile. He looked up at me, and I noticed how pretty his eyes were. There were bags under them, telling me he didn't get much sleep last night. Or any night judging by his demeanor.

He nodded. "Yeah, go ahead." Then he looked down at his feet.

His voice was raspy and small. I sat down next to him, looking at him again. "I'm Phil."

His eyes flickered to back to mine. "D-Dan."

I shook his hand, noticing how sweaty it was. "Are you nervous or something?" I chuckled.

Dan shrugged. "Anxiety. I just don't like being around s-so many people- especially since I don't have anybody to talk to. I was forced to come here."

I smiled supportively, gently patting his back. "Hey, there's nothing to be afraid of," except me. "I was forced to be here as well."

Dan let himself giggle. "Seriously?" The coffee-haired boy questioned. "Why?" I ran a hand through my hair.

"I'm just an asshole, I guess," Dan laughed, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. I would be lying if I told you that wasn't adorable. "What about you, Howell?"

"I- wait, how do you know my last name?" I opened my mouth to make up an excuse when a a man stood up from his chair.

"Hello everyone. I'm Patrick, and I'm gonna be the guy you talk to if anything happens. So first off, as today is the first day of support group, I want everybody to introduce themselves. Also, if you're comfortable, tell us why you're here."

We went around until it was my turn. I stood up, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. "I'm Phil. I'm seventeen, um. . . I have anger issues and I like boys?" I spoke, the last word coming out more like a question than an answer. The crowd chuckled.

Dan's eyes widened when it was his turn and stood up. "My name is Dan, I'm sixteen and uh. . . well I don't really have a strict label but I think boys are cute so. . . anyways, I swim and I like to think I can play piano."

"He's wearing a bunch of black, kinda creepy lookin'." One of the girls, Nyla, murmured to her friend. Dan sat back down, pursing his lips.

Patrick opened his mouth to scold the ignorant girl before Dan spoke up. "Not necessarily. It's just a color, really. There's seven colors in the rainbow: purple, blue, light blue, green, yellow, orange and red. But that's just the rainbow, when in reality, there's an infinite amount of colors. There's lilac, mint, turquoise, lime green, sunshine yellow- the whole bit. So really, there's thousands of colors that could be a dull color or a light color but it all depends on the person."

"For example, if someone knew a person that loved the color yellow and they passed away, to that someone, yellow would be a sad color because it's a reminder of what they lost. But if you've noticed, most smiley faces we see are yellow, so the average population thinks it's an enthusiastic color. Those labels are just the names we give the colors so they have a meaning to this world. It's kind of like people. We're all just people but everybody gets labels so they have something to stand for. Whether that is a jock or a nerd, popular or an outcast, an emo or a prep- we're all just a name in this world."

"Wow. . ." Patrick cleared his throat. "Do you think a lot, Dan?" The man questioned. I watched Dan sit back down, tapping his foot on the carpet before looking back up at Patrick.

"I believe that as many texts we send and calls we answer, we all have time to think."

I looked at him, but his gaze flickered back to his feet again.

They continued with the circle until finally it was over. I walked out and spotted Dan waiting by the bus stop, tapping his shoe against the pavement with earphones in. I hurried over to him, sitting next to him on the bench.

"What are you listening to?" He showed me his phone. "Isn't that, like, a really sad song?" Dan opened his mouth to reply but I grinned. "I know, I know. It's just a song, and there's thousands of genres and billions of lyrics that could mean anything. There's bands that people hate and love, whether it be because their ex loved them or they just don't like their music. There's hundreds of concerts every year, which people can pay to go to or instead watch videos of it on social media. Everybody has an opinion and everybody has time to listen to music, now matter how packed their schedule may be."

And his face lit up, and I found myself wishing his name wasn't on the list.