A Million Shattered Pieces

Chapter One

         "Sometimes when things are falling apart they may actually be falling into place."

Sitting in a class that used to mean the world to me, I felt the passion slipping away. For months, the inevitable feeling of hopelessness had been settling in all around me. The world as I knew it was going to change.

He walked into the room, the kind of fake smile I knew all too well plastered on his face. It was a smile I myself used time after time, day after day.

Lots of people still believe in soulmates. I don't. And yet, there was an undeniable connection between us the second he walked into the room. Ugly thoughts whispered in the depths of my mind. Hiding the shivers passing through me, I ripped my eyes away from his face.

Whispered voices passed through the room, fellow peers debating whether they should welcome this new kid in their group. A dark figure took a seat to my left. Keeping my eyes glued to the book on the desk, I could feel eyes taking me in.

Someone sneezed at the back of the class, the force of it shifting their desk. Mrs. Witherspoon, our English teacher, cleared her throat. Slamming the book shut, I focused my attention on her. There was no sign she had any intentions of introducing the new student. Instead, she turned to the whiteboard, beginning from where the class left off yesterday.

The words she said got lost as I felt eyes drifting back toward me. The new student's face swam in my peripheral vision, his gaze falling down to the book laid on my desk.

After fifteen minutes of this, I finally turned to look at him. "Can I help you?" I whispered, turning back to the front of the room and leaning in for a response.

A moment of silence passed, and I was almost sure he wouldn't answer, when a low voice spoke beside me. "Is that a good book?"

My body tensed before I realized there was no hint of taunting in his tone. Usually, when someone asked if a book was good, they broke out in laughter when I began to talk about it. Glancing at Mrs. Witherspoon, who was still busy talking, I leaned closer to him.

"It's my favorite," I said. "Do you read a lot?"

His cheeks turned red as he nodded. The conversation died out before it even started. Both of us sat forward, watching but not listening to our teacher. No one in the class seemed to have the slightest idea what she was rambling on about.

My glasses kept sliding down my face, never staying in place. Irritation built up, me getting tired of pushing the frames up my nose every few minutes. A girl on the right began to tap her pen on her desk, creating a nauseating rhythm.

"And this is an example of what, Claire?" All eyes fell on me.

Palms sweaty, I fumbled for an answer. Being the center of attention was the worst. Having anyone pay attention to me was terrifying, if I were honest. No words would come out, being put on the spot leaving me speechless.

"It's a metaphor."

My head turned to look at the new kid. There was an aura of confidence around him, though it was obvious he forced it. Narrowing her eyes, Mrs. Witherspoon took a step closer to our section of the room. After a moment, she walked back to the whiteboard. Forgetting once again about introducing the new student.

For the rest of the class, I was petrified in fear of getting called upon again. An ever-present feeling of unease was taking over me. The idea of having to do presentations later on in the year instilling fear deep within.