The Queerest [🗸]

names n' fruity shit

Monochrome.

It's a strange staple in the dress code, but it looks even fucking stranger on me. My eyes meet the ones staring back at me in the mirror. I inhale him from where I'm standing, arms hanging awkwardly from my sides.

He looks tired.

There are bags underneath their eyes, slight but there. Their hair is in loose curls, and they haven't really touched it in days. Their shirt is plain, jeans oversized and hemmed by their mom because of how oversized they were.

I don't know how I feel about him.

He's pretty, of course. Warm brown skin, large eyes, messy curls. But, he's also sad. 

After all, dressing differently hasn't exactly prevented douchebags from making snide comments. 

My lips quirk upwards.

It's funny how they say that you make it hard on yourself, despite the fact that I've still been called a fag in the hallway in recent days, only further emphasized by the list that some dumbass pasted onto the bulletin board.

To put icing on the shitty cake, Liyah hasn't been in school for days.

She hasn't been in school since the day I got physically attacked. She was visiting her grandma in San Diego, all of her extended family. 

Since the awful shit that Kyle pulled before his graduating—her San Diego trips have increased in frequency over the years.

I exhale.

And fuck, it's hard braving this through without her. She'd be there to link elbows with me and tell me I'm beautiful over and over again because she's a simp, and more importantly, my best friend.

My eyes return to the person in the mirror.

They seem trapped, and fuck do I feel pretentious, feel wrong, slightly off.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I exhale, my fingers flying for a familiar contact.

Fruit.

Fingers flying across my phone, I search for the right words as I type to him.