ððžððð. - ððžððŋððð ð ðððžðŋðð â
ððŠðī ðĶðšðĶððŠðŊðĶðģ ðĩðĒðŠðŊðĩðī ðĪðð°ðĩðĐðŠðŊðĻ ðąðķðģðĶ ð°ð§ ðĪð°ðð°ðķðģ, ðĒ ðģðĶðŪðŠðŊðĨðĶðģ ð°ð§ ðĐðŠðī ðĶðđðŠðīðĩðĶðŊðĪðĶ.
ððī ðŠð§ ðĐðŠðī ðīðĪðĶðŊðĩ ðĒðð°ðŊðĶ ðĨð°ðĶðīðŊ'ðĩ ðīðĩðŠðĪðŽ ðĩð° ðšð°ðķ, ðĨðģð°ðļðŊðŠðŊðĻ ðšð°ðķðģ ð°ðļðŊ, ðąð°ðīðīðĶðīðīðŠð·ðĶ ðŠðŊ ðŠðĩðī ðĶðŪðĢðģðĒðĪðĶ.
ððī ðŠð§ ðšð°ðķ ðĶð·ðĶðģ ðŊðĶðĶðĨðĶðĨ ðĒ ðģðĶðŪðŠðŊðĨðĶðģ, ðļðĐðĶðŊ ðĐðŠðī ðŊðĒðŪðĶ ðŠðŊðŽðī ðĩðĐðĶ ðąðĒðĻðĶðī ð°ð§ ðšð°ðķðģ ðŊð°ðĩðĶðĢð°ð°ðŽðī, ðĐðķðģðģðŠðĶðĨððš ðīðĪðģðĒðĩðĪðĐðĶðĨ ð°ðķðĩ ðĢðĶð§ð°ðģðĶ ð§ð°ðģðĶðŠðĻðŊ ðĶðšðĶðī ðĪðĒðŊ ðīðķðīðąðĶðĪðĩ ðĩðĐðĶ ðŊðķðŪðĢðĶðģ ð°ð§ ðĩðŠðŪðĶðī ðšð°ðķ'ð·ðĶ ðĩðĒðīðĩðĶðĨ ðĐðŠðī ðŊðĒðŪðĶ ð°ðŊ ðšð°ðķðģ ððŠðąðī.
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A juxtaposition, you were to him. As the teenage world - high school - seemed to collapse under the pressures of social groups and conforming to the image one presented, you were more than one-dimensional than many assumed. You stood in the spotlight that everyone assumed you wanted, whilst he could only linger by the sidelines, a quiet observer to whom you never expected to find such comfort with. Yet the further you sink into the hole of his life, the nuance he had and how eccentric he seemed, would you grow more and more desensitised to the worst he could show, as the horrors of his mind would lay bare by the simple factor of his infatuation.
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