love me at my worst

Emily’s morning began with a lie. She stood in front of the mirror, arms crossed tight over her stomach, and whispered it to her reflection: "Today won’t be so bad." The coffee scalded her tongue as she gulped it black no sugar, no cream, no extra calories while her little sister, Chloe, drowned her cereal in milk and rainbow sprinkles. You’re gonna be late," Chloe said, crunching loudly. Emily ignored her and checked her phone. A notification from Fit Star: "You’re 47 days behind your goal!" She swiped it away. The walk to school was a minefield She took the long route, avoiding the bus stop where the soccer team loitered. Their laughter carried down the block, sharp as broken glass. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk cracks. Step on one, gain a pound. A stupid superstition, but she avoided them anyway. The school doors swallowed her whole. Inside, the air smelled like sweat and cheap body spray. She hugged her books to her chest like armor, weaving through the crowd, shoulders hunched against the inevitable A hissed "whale." A snicker. A backpack "accidentally" bumping into her. She didn’t react. She never did. Homeroom was her sanctuary. Back row, desk by the window, where she could disappear. The door swung open. Adam Smith walked in, his presence like a sudden chill in the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that perpetually bored expression that never seemed to change. His usual entourage trailed behind him, already laughing at some joke no one else heard. For the briefest moment just a second, really his dark eyes flicked to her. Emily froze. It was nothing. Had to be nothing. Adam Smith didn't look at girls like her. But for that one heartbeat, he had. Then it was over. His gaze moved on, disinterested as ever, as he slouched into his seat up front. Then it was over. His gaze moved on, disinterested as ever, as he slouched into his seat up front.