What did I do wrong?--that’s the first question I asked myself.

     You must've done something, I think to myself bitterly.

     I gaze at the phone number scribbled across a small piece of paper. It's what she gave to me.

     I feel it crumble as my hand shifts to a fist, coming to rest against the table.

     You did something. Something wrong I'm guessing. You fucked up. You're terrible, the voice nags at me more.

     I lean back, the dark hoodie embracing me tightly as I try to recall what had happened.

     “I was on my way back from art class,” I whisper. “Then we talked.”

      Just talked. That's it.

     We talked.

     It seemed friendly… Innocent enough—-there were no malicious undertones I could see. No traces of malice.

     We talked. Talked.

     Then, she asked me out.

     “You were so red faced,” I whisper to myself, retreating farther into my hoodie. “It caught you off-guard… and you liked it. It made you actually feel good about yourself.”

    I did.

    I actually felt good for once… and not like Shrek’s ugly cousin.

     She said you were cute.

     Cute.

     That's how I felt.

     For once, I felt good… like a cute boy.

     Gods, I felt good.

     I said yes to her.

     She gave me her number… We talked at school.

       I feel the wadded up ball of paper shift back and forth between my fingers, a small edge of it sticking straight out between my index and middle finger.

     I sigh.

     Everything had been perfect.

    Until the last day.

    You caught her flirting with the quarterback… but you didn't say a damn thing… All because you were too chickenshit to, my mind insists.

     “I just held it in,” I reply, a soft whisper. “It felt like a massive gut-punch though.”

     Because you liked her. You really did. You thought she was cute… Nice… Smart. Funny even.

     I exhale, but it still feels like there's air trapped in my lungs. It’s a thick kind of air—-one that fills the room after shame. Embarrassment. Heart-break. It deafens sounds. It drowns you. And now I feel like I'm suffocating.

      I try to let out more air, but when it escapes, it's like a small choking noise.

      The world seems like it's too much.

     Finally, she told you what happened. But, guess what? It was all a game to her. She toyed with your feelings.

      “Stop,” I mutter to myself, not wanting to think about what had happened anymore. I clench the paper tighter. My knuckles go white from the grip.

     I clench my jaw, biting my lip. My teeth sink into my lip, piercing it—-but I don't relax my jaw anytime soon.

     I look back to my hand for a short period of time before throwing the ball of paper into the trash.

       She told you the truth. She was paid by her friends to date the “biggest loser in school”. That was you.

     “Stop,” I repeat again.

     Funny that you thought she actually liked you. But, you're not desirable, right? You're too skinny. Not an ounce of muscle on you. You're short. Too short. 5’0”. Only five fucking feet tall. You've got a bit of a speech impediment—-you stutter, too much. You're too pale. You don't tan. You just burn. Instantly. …and to top that off, you've got that unattractive, little ridge that sticks out in your nose and makes it fucking look broken… Thanks to the Polish side of your family, that is, the voice whispers.

    “Just… fucking drop it, okay?” I reply, sinking forward in my chair just to slouch, elbows planting on the armrests—-so tightly that it'll leave red marks.

     Then, the next year… The girl who you'd been best friends with since elementary school… She held your hand on the bus. …she held your hand in the hallway. It made your heart race.

    “Leave it alone, will you…”

     Then, she confessed. She didn't like you. She was told to just toy with you. Not surprising though. She was friends with your ex-girlfriend.

     “Damn you.”

      Soon enough, the whole school knew. You were the laughing stock. That's just who you were… What you became known as. The ugly boy.

     The skeleton boy even.

     The pale boy.

     It made you bitter.

    Made you the broken boy.

    I exhale, finally relaxing, looking at my phone.

    My friend sent a message.

    Carefully, I take time to read it.

    They friend-zoned me.

    I sigh.

    That's just my reality.

    That's my point.

    You'll never have a first kiss.

    Come on, broken boy… Do your job. Be yourself just so everyone else looks more desirable to you. Better than you. You exist to make other people find love… To play therapist for your friends and mend their toxic relationships. Why? Because you, yourself, will never know love.

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a/n: So, despite this story, just wanna say I don't actually think the word 'ugly' really exists in the terms how people look. I think 'ugly' is more of a word that pertains to peoples' personalities and actions.