𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter I

I've got three months left. Ninety days, and then I'm gone.

Maybe the numbers shouldn't matter so much, but they do. Every day I count them down, carving each one into my notebook like some desperate tally. Freedom feels close enough to touch, just out of reach, waiting for me at the edge of graduation.

Today's a reminder of why I need to leave. My parents' voices echo down the hall, their words blending into the usual arguments—money, stress, blame.

I learned a long time ago not to listen too closely. It's all background noise now, just another reason to pack up and go.

I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. I grab my backpack and head out the door, trying to shut out the chaos behind me.

Outside, the air is cool and fresh. I take a deep breath, letting the smell of dew-covered grass fill my lungs.

I walk quickly, my shoes tapping against the cracked sidewalk. The sky's gray, but there's a chill in the air that feels good, like it's waking me up. Somehow, no matter how early I leave, I always manage to be late. It's almost like my feet know this place is temporary, so they don't rush.

When I reach the school entrance, I can already hear the hum of voices echoing through the hallways. The sound is comforting and exhausting at the same time.

I push through the doors, slipping past the usual clusters of students, all of them deep in conversation or laughter. I don't really know any of them, not really. I've made it a point not to get close. In a few months, none of them will matter.

But even so, I have a problem. A big one.

"You're such a loser. Maybe you should get those teeth fixed," a familiar voice sneers. I glance over and see her smirking, arms crossed. The kid she's talking to stares at the ground, his face going red.

Then she spots me, and so do the rest of them.

"Finally, you showed up!" one of them calls out, pushing the kid aside. He stumbles back, quickly brushing his hair out of his face before hurrying off.

I sigh, giving my so-called "friends" a little wave as I walk up. They're a bunch of rich kids who think the rest of the world should bow down to them. My "friend group"—yeah, they're a big problem.

See, everyone here thinks I'm one of them. They think I'm some popular, wealthy bully. And, in a way, they're not wrong. I keep up with their whole act, let everyone believe I fit in with them. But the truth is, I don't. I just... stay.

That's the thing about people like them: they never look past the surface. They see me as one of them because I play the part well. I wear the right clothes, act with the right attitude, keep up with their snarky comments. I even laugh at the things they say, things that, honestly, make me sick.

Like just now, watching them taunt that kid. It happens every day—someone's a target, someone's a joke. And every day, I stand there, silent, letting them think I'm one of them.

Not because I want to, but because it's easier. No one questions me or gets close enough to see the cracks.

I follow them to our usual spot in the hallway, leaning against the lockers, letting my gaze drift away from their conversation.

My eyes move to the front doors—or more like the person walking through them, followed by his friends. I stare, unable to help it.

Round glasses, a casual smirk, and designer clothes. That's all it takes for the principal's grandson to draw everyone's attention.

It's become instinct at this point—staring at him, even if I don't like it or if he catches me in the act. There's just something about the way he moves, like he knows exactly how much space he takes up and isn't sorry for it.