Endless solo of solitude | Lookism various x reader

Endless waltz.

The world is beautiful.

Better than anyone, you know this. However, the planet earth itself is a stage. It comes to be alive, a chance to be a saviour, to be inferior, or to be superior. It all depends on your choices, and yours alone. The matter doesn't lie in what other people think. But, of course, that alone isn't an easy feat. To ignore others, to ignore their snarky comments, to ignore their dirty grins, and to ignore their need to pick at every little fault. After all, people become individual to themselves only at the expense of being above someone.

You choose to be a medium for the ways in which people have been wronged.

The fat under your eyes is evident, blurry with sleep, and the brief brushes of tears that fade with each blink, are a reminder. A reminder you can't do anything. You aren't strong, nor are you smart. What does that leave you with? It makes the point of your existence clear; you aren't a main character.

Your eyes are fit for your face, though at first glance, they may appear otherwise. The pucker of your lips, shaded in every colour but the one you wish for, is not too far from being alright. And your nose, firm and right, navigates the rest of your features.

You're messy, and especially so during class.

You aren't pretty.

But you aren't ugly.

"Move along, fatso," a boy in your class shouts. He's loud, and he makes a point to meet your eyes. His name isn't important enough to remember, though he is someone who claims to treat everyone equal. But he isn't referring to you, no, he's jeering at a lone boy in your class.

Duke trembles, his eyes cast down. "I'm sorry."

"You better be. Shit," the boy cusses, "how are you so fat? Do you eat for your whole family?"

His eyes are still wide open, almost daring you to make a move in rebuttal.

"I'm sorry," Duke apologises again. Guilt frames his voice. The pain makes your heart shake, shatter into a million pieces, and float far, far away.

You want to do something. You want to help. You want to do everything, anything, except for stay still.

"Fuck. Seeing you pisses me off," the boy shouts. His friends join in. They laugh. And they purposely shoot you stares as well.

You can't do something. You can't help.

Duke closes his eyes. He sniffs, hiding the wetness of his dark, smooth eyes. "I'm so sorry."

The boy smiles your way and turns to leave with his goons. They each send a different look. One goofily grins, fingers stretching out the sides of his lips. Another makes a retching motion, fanning himself. And the final has the decency to give you an apologetic smile, or the best he can do before being pulled away and scolded.

Lunch begins. The bell goes.

Once they leave the room, you can get up from your seat without a worry. Everyone else follows in suit.

You approach Duke. His eyes are still cast down, framed by the bangs covering half his face.

Duke isn't handsome. He isn't pretty. He isn't attractive. He isn't anything close to that.

The problem is, you aren't either.

All you can do is stop in front of his table.