Colors (bxb) [DISCONTINUED]

satisfied

"I will never be satisfied."

🔵🔴⚫️⚪️🔘

"Mr. Simmons." Standing at the very front of the class, Ms. Duval seems to either smile or sneer at me. I really can't tell, but I'm hoping it's the former. "How nice of you to join us. Go on, take your seat."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, the bell rings, deeming everyone not inside of their class officially late. For some odd reason, I glance behind me - and my eyes meet with Justin's. The expression on his face is one of hurt; it's an expression I can't remember ever seeing on him, especially on him. The Justin I know would never look at me like I've let go of his hand, letting him plummet to his death. The Justin I know would possibly look confused, maybe even panicked, and then confront me the next day like nothing even happened.

And me being me, I would fall for his charming smile and forget everything.

I don't think I'll be able to forget anymore.

I turn away. Ms. Duval quickly walks over and shuts the door. A flash of red ignites in my vision at the sound.

"I wasn't late, by the way," I say to my teacher, tiredly, my head pounding even worse than before. "I know I'm the last one here, but the bell just rung. I made it just in time."

She rolls her eyes. "I am well aware, Mr. Simmons."

"Just making sure."

The class gets a little laugh out of that. I ignore them; I'm not trying to become the class-clown, or anything ridiculous like that. Maybe, if I were straight and didn't have to worry about ten-thousand-and-one stresses, I could've become the witty jokester of the class. But, of course, I'm not straight - and my life is falling apart, piece by piece, with that one minor detail being the ultimate cause.

"Take your seat, Mr. Simmons."

I don't even have the energy to respond. Whispers being thrown around class, the colors surrounding me like a swarm of locusts, I barely manage to make it to my seat at the very back of the classroom. My head hurts, and my eyes are starting to burn, and my ears are ringing because at least five people in the class are whispering about the hickey on my neck. Once again, I curse Robin for giving me the damned thing, and I curse myself for being too brain-dead to cover it up again with makeup.

When I finally make it to my seat, I pause. Sat atop my chair is a yellow backpack, and on my table is an even brighter purse. I've seen these items almost every single day for the past two years; I know exactly who they belong to.

I turn to Tamara. Despite the fact that she's scowling, I can't deny that she looks really pretty today. She always does. Curly hair, red lipstick, black eyeliner - and that's not even touching on her natural attractive face. Sometimes, when I'm in my darkest of moods, I hate myself for being gay and not being able to find her sexually attractive. For someone who looks like that to have an interest in someone like me . . .

I clear my throat, leaning against the table to keep steady. Besides the headache, I'm starting to get nauseous. "Tamara?"

She doesn't even glance at me. "Yes, Kristopher?"

I don't miss the way she says my name; I can practically taste the anger. Kristopher. She doesn't call me that. She never calls that. I'm always Krissy-poo, or Kris - but never, ever Kristopher. She's definitely pissed at me, and I have a good idea as to why. I was just hoping that I could somehow alleviate her anger before she found out, but I guess I'm a bit too late.

For some reason, I glance at Ava, who also isn't paying me a cent of attention. She looks completely different from the girl I used to call my best friend; even more makeup is plastered on her face, giving her a rather fierce look that I'm not at all used to. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I think girls shouldn't use makeup. Anyone should be able to use whatever they want on their face. But this just isn't Ava, whatsoever. I just want a reason as to why she's suddenly doing this; I want to know what Stephany must've told her to get the idea that she has to change how she looks.