After my dad dropped me off at school the next day, in which during the car ride he had signed my cross country paper that was now firmly gripped in my hand into an almost completely crumpled ball, I stood at the entrance of the outdoor track. I had an hour to spare; I hadn't realized how early I'd arrived but was thankful for the extra time.

The whole track, surrounded by plants and bushes that resembled a little too much of sophistication, for they had no lively look to them, just too-perfectly trimmed with not one flower out of place, set an uneasiness in my stomach. Most of the track was shaded by the trees, so when you walked in nobody from the school could look into the too-big ceiling to floor windows and see you running. I was thankful for the privacy. On each side of the track was bleachers, long and high ones that were green and white, which were the school colors.

Deciding that I was going to use my time wisely, I went back into the school and into the first floor locker rooms, slipping into shorts and a t-shirt with my running sneakers. I went back out and onto the track, shoving in my headphones and standing at the starting line, just staring ahead.

Track had always been an option, but for some reason I didn't have the energy to do it. Running so fast that you might throw up, so eager to get pass everyone with your heart crazily thumping; it just didn't settle well with me. Cross country was an individual sport for the most part. I was clearly going to try to ignore the other teammates and focus on my time and myself.

The morning weather was somewhat foggy and slightly chilly, setting the perfect atmosphere. I pressed play on my iPod, letting the music drift in an out of my head and into my thoughts. I stared ahead, got into a position with my right foot in front of my left and my legs in a crouching position. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a few seconds and I was off. The breeze blasted against my cheeks and ears as my legs led me around the track over and over. My breathing grew steady; in through my nose and out through my mouth, creating soft puffs of coldness into the air that faded as I ran past it.

And in that moment, with my legs pumping at a steady pace and my eyes focused on the trail in front of me, I fell into my own happy heaven.

It was this specific time, where it felt as if you were running on clouds and your arms moved so easily at your sides. My vision grew bright, my body energized, and my eyes bright with only that of contentment.

And that moment, lasting a rough ten to fifteen seconds, drifted away as reality slipped into its' place, not all good but not all bad either.

I let my legs stop, an ache in my thighs and calves already forming, and dropped to the ground to do a couple of stretches. I bent over, letting my fingers brush against the tip of my sneakers and back up again. I then twisted my neck around, as well as my arms and then my hips, in which I realized a man who was already all too familiar to me came into view at the entrance of the track. All which happened to be Mr. Lee.

The fact that he could have been standing there for a long time and I hadn't noticed was completely humiliating and I wanted to curl into a ball.

Oh God, this is embarrassing.

Heat flooded to my cheeks and I was extremely thankful for the fact that my cheeks only looked red and blotchy because I had just ran, not from suffering of embarrassment.

I took out my earphones and coughed awkwardly, with nothing to even carry back into the locker room to look like I was actually doing something instead of standing there, staring at him. I busied myself with twirling my earphones around my iPod, my breathing still coming out in short raspy breaths. Once I was done twirling it around, my fingers fiddled with the tip of my earphones. I was far too embarrassed to walk past him but I had to eventually. I only had fifteen more minutes to get ready.

I slowly walked towards the entrance, my eyes glued to the pale red track, my sneakers squishing against the texture, but the feeling of his own eyes observing me was enough to make me melt into a pile of anxiety. When I looked up, meeting his dark and oddly mysterious gaze, with eyes that resembled the color of a dark, crystal blue lake, he nodded and I gave him the smallest smile I had ever mustered in my life.

What else was I supposed to do? Nod back, or worse, just stare at him? Or smile, a big toothy one? Every option seemed to be wrong, seemingly the fact that I lacked social skills and the fact that I had to even decide how to react to a teacher's gaze was just pathetic.

When I reached the locker room, I showered as fast as possible, letting my hair fall down my back in messy, damp waves. My eyelashes dripped with shower water and I wiped it away, gathering my belongings and heading out and to my first period class, trying extremely hard to ignore the stares of the girls who were dressing from morning basketball practice.

The classes went by the same way, the teachers giving me almost annoyed expressions, making sure they knew not to call on me. Nobody suspected anything. I was literally invisible to these students; they hardly knew I was there and I was fairly content with that. If my image was a ghost of a girl who didn't even utter a word, I was perfectly fine with it.

School to me did not contain a social aspect. I viewed it as something for education and possibly physical purposes of adolescence only. It was quite sad but I refused anything more. I didn't deserve it.

When Mr. Lee's class came, which was the only class that was somewhat interesting because of the teacher himself, I arrived early so I could sit in the back instead of in the front, where everything I did or even looked at was visible to him.

"Good afternoon, Poppy." His deep voice sounded, his eyes rotating to me. I gave him a tight, awkward smile.

Before I escaped to the seat in the back, I remembered I had the cross country paper for him. I stood near the entryway of the classroom, digging in my backpack for the crumpled up paper. When my fingers finally found their way to the paper, I tugged it out and placed it on his desk, embarrassment hanging above me like a cloud.

I scribbled on my notebook.

Sorry that it's ruined. It's the signature that counts.

I showed it to him.

"You're right," he chuckled deeply. "As long as you have the signature. It'll be good to have you on the team. You're talented."

As the heat once again rose to my cheeks, I shuffled to the back of the classroom, right when the other students started crowding into the class, oblivious to me as usual.