Everybody has secrets of their own, right? There's something everybody tries to hide from the world that might possibly destroy their image. The question is, is my secret worse than yours?

It took the police less than a week to investigate and notify us that my mother committed suicide and murdered my father. It was all over the news. Every news outlet was covering our tragedy, wondering why my mother killed herself and what made my mother murder my father?

I watched as every morning show host demonized my mom with their guests. How the media depicted her as a terrible woman who was partially to blame for my sister's death. People threw eggs at one of her gallery studios, and only a few people who knew her well, not only as an artist but also as a personal friend, spoke fondly of her.

When Clarissa wanted another investigation to be made, she asked for a new lead investigator to handle the investigation. It almost took the new team of investigators three weeks before they informed us that my mother didn't commit suicide and that she was also murdered because the weapon was never found at the crime scene. It didn't take long for the media to pick up on the fresh information.

I had to sprint away from the reporters who, two years ago, were chasing me down the block from Clarissa's place. I recall the track blurring beneath me when I felt that adrenaline rush. My ears rang with the rapid thump of my footsteps, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead. When I succumbed to my foot's incredible banging on the ground. An aggressive pitter-pattern struck the track with the soles of my sneakers. It was the way I always got my rage drained, and that's what was going on at the time. I was overjoyed. My spirit was at its highest point, and I ran, and I was alive. When I turned and hid in a corner, I felt relieved. I imagine this would be a cool scenario in films, but I never thought it could happen to me, and it's not really cool as I thought it would be.

I noticed a pack of television reporters sitting outside our front yard when I went home. Without them knowing, I had to sneak my way to the back. I was trapped inside the house for weeks, and what I did was watch the news as they talk about me and my family on live television.

I stayed inside the car, struggling to breathe, as Zania gets a hold of me. It was only the first day of school, and today I'm starting to reconsider my decision about going back here when Clarissa offered to enroll me in homeschool.

"I can do this," I said.

"I can just drive you back home if you want. There's nothing much to do today, anyway."

I look at Zania as my eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"There will just be an event later in the afternoon, and we get to go home at around noon. So, if you want, I can drive you home now. It wouldn't even take that long," Zania said.

Yes. I would love to come home right now, eagerly and desperately. A part of me, though, was too stubborn and what emerged from my mouth was:

"No," I say, "I'm going."

I stepped out of the car and couldn't believe I was back at school after a long, personal break. I suppose it isn't that bad either. The weather is good. It was a sunny, mild morning. In the sky, soft, fluffy clouds drifted. Who knew in September that early fall would be so beautiful? Plus, I'll be okay with Zania by my side.

"By the way, mom told me to tell you to stop by the counselor's office today," Zania says, "Just stop by her office, okay? Promise me, you will."

I despise going to my psychiatrist already, yet Clarissa expects me to go to the counselor at my school for another talk? Zania gave me a look, waiting for a response from me. I nod my head, even though I'm not going to go there today.

"I have to go somewhere. I already texted Savannah to walk you to your first period. She says she'll meet you by your locker."

She blows a kiss at me, and before I can say something, Zania starts running towards the doors of the building, leaving me alone outside the parking lot of the school.

People were too busy talking to each other to consider my presence, and at this moment, I believe that is better than anything. I'd rather go unnoticed than listen to strangers who say they're sorry for what happened two years ago.

I went to school and walked right into my locker. I opened my locker and pretended to grab something inside, instead of appearing like a fool, standing and waiting for Savannah to come around. I don't want anyone to look at me and recognize me as the girl whose parents passed a few months before losing her sister to suicide.

"Hey! You're easy to find. I was wondering what—"

I closed the door to my locker and saw a total stranger standing against the locker next to me. His eyes widened in disbelief as he immediately caught a glimpse of my face. He stops speaking and says,

"I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"It's fine," I said.

I turned back to my locker and randomly spin the combination to lock it. To be honest, he looks sort of cute. Unless you're into a guy with messy brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles on both of his cheeks, I mean. In his physical appearance, there was nothing particularly noteworthy. However, for minor aspects, he seemed a little odd in a way that I just couldn't explain well. He wore a plain, solid-colored top, the kind of shirt you can buy for ten dollars at Target, and pants—nothing 'boisterous,' nothing 'cool,' nothing at all 'attention-seeking.'

"You're awfully familiar," He said.

I rolled my eyes at the voice that seems to be on the surface of my thoughts.

"You're the newspaper cover girl! Cute picture, by the way," He clicks his tongue as he throws in a wink.

"You make it sound as if I were a supermodel," I said, almost cringing.

As his mouth tugged into a smirk, he snickers at himself. It's one of those smirks that makes me want to wipe it off of somebody's face because they think it adds up to them being cute or good-looking. When he gazes at me, up and down, he cocks his head on his left side.

"So, that's you. You're that girl whose parents died and your sister committed—"

"—I think it's best if you don't finish the rest of your sentence."

People talk a lot in this school and whisper but he was the first person to actually point out that my sister has committed suicide or at least the first one who is about to say that. At this point, I didn't realize that it still does disturb me.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I was confused about whether he was apologizing to me or over what happened to me.

"It's actually intriguing how you're still holding it all up."

"It's intriguing? What's that supposed to mean?" My voice begins to rise out of frustration, "Why? Do people expect me to kill myself too, instead of trying to make ends meet because of what happened to me?"

My voice begins to crack, and I can sense the surge of pain in my veins. A tear will trickle down my cheek any minute now. I swallowed the lump in my throat that was starting to grow as I tried my hardest to hold it all in—all that rage, pain, confusion, and disgust.

Before I walked away, I gave him a not-so-endearing smile. At this point, I feel like breaking down, but I don't want to. Not publicly. Especially not in a place where people barely have an idea about what's going on with me. They're just going to think that I'm still affected by what happened, and I don't want them to know because that makes me look like I'm a weak person—someone who is entirely ignorant of when to stop mourning.

The bell rang so loud that it knocked me out of my thoughts. I began to speed-walk, heading for the classroom. I stood at the door, took a deep breath, and pulled the handle. I met with a couple of stares from the students inside the room when I arrived, the same ones who looked at me the way they had years before. Their scornful stares, judging me from head to toe to my existence of being here, were present before their eyes.

It took a lot of bravery to ignore them, which was successful enough to pat myself on the back for doing so.

I turned my head back and saw Kelly sitting at the back of the room, staring in my direction, looking at me, I suppose. I gave her a half-smile, but abruptly, she twisted her head in the opposite direction.

It seemed like we were all right yesterday. I sensed a little weight on my back being lifted after she apologized. I was, maybe, the only one who felt we were okay now.

We were like the three musketeers, but only there were five of us: Janice, Julia, Kelly, me, and Savannah. I still remember Janice telling me that together we would overcome our fears and that it was our friendship against the universe. Ever since they found out what happened to my sister, Janice was the first to reach out to me.

She was close to our family, especially my sister. I remember telling her everything, especially what was going on with me.

Eventually, I found out that Janice told Julia, Kelly, and Savannah about me. She was the one who probably spread around the school that I'm a psycho who almost got admitted to the psychiatric hospital. After that, Julia and Kelly turned a blind eye to my feelings, and Savannah was the only one out of the three to stay with me. The real me.

Sometimes, I miss being around them, and I hate myself for missing them. I hate myself for being this way.

I chose a front-row seat. There was so much light here as there was at the back, which, I think, can help me to concentrate in class better. This year will be my last year of high school. Tragic as it seems, this year and this school that reminds me of Elise are what I can't wait to forget about.

The door swings open, and Ms. Romeo enters the room. Back when I was in sophomore year, she used to teach literature class. Currently, she's teaching senior students English Writing Skills.

"It's good to see you back, Ms. Sanders," Ms. Romeo says.

She placed her blackPrada double bag on the table, along with the papers she was carrying. Thestudents went dead silent immediately the moment she entered the room. I watchMs. Romeo grab something inside her bag, and stepped towards theboard to write something.

She turns her heel around, facing us, and said, "A personal letter addressed to acquaintances or family is an informal letter, often referred to as a friendly letter or could be an informal letter addressed to a friend, and it is written in a personal manner."

She put the marker on the desk and begins to walk between the aisle, making a click-clack sound on the floor with her heels.

"We're going to explore the ways of writing letters in class and my personal favorite, informal letters," she says." "Since it's already your senior year, I chose this knowing some of you will soon part ways with your old friends. It's something you can all keep and at the same time, hope that you'll enjoy writing."

I turn my head back to look at her. My eyes follow her as she speaks.

"This will be a partner-type of project. Where you're going to write letters to your chosen partner, whether it's a letter of parting, a letter of thanks, or whatever you may like it to be," She smiles.

Ms. Romeo raises her arm and stares at the watch on her wrist and proceeds to say, "I'll discuss the format of writing a letter later on. For now, for this upcoming project, I will be giving you approximately eight minutes to find your partners."

I glanced around and saw students begin to look at each other, declaring their partners with only a single glance, point, and nod. All seem to know which people to write to—leaving me to write for no one, with my feelings left unheard nor felt to reach someone.

As soon as Ms. Romeo takes a seat behind the table in front of me, I stood up and approached her, asking, "Would it be okay to address my letter to a non-existent person?"

She looks up at me with a curious expression on her face. She was confused by the question I raised. When she shakes her head in response to saying no, I felt so dejected.

"Lauren, this is your final year. You, being back here is a great achievement and I am proud of you but you have to make every moment count and at least let everyone hear your feelings," she says.

"Take it as a challenge that you'll greatly benefit from."

I see several reasons that this is not going to end well for me, but I can't help but agree after hearing what she just said. I know that this is a great opportunity for me to grab after being judged by people for the wrong things as they listened and believed the false stories.

It's either Ms. Romeo was right, or perhaps this isn't just the right time for me yet. Thinking that all of this is too much and maybe Savannah was right, this is all too soon.

I sat down, looked around, and thought to myself, maybe it's time for me to start inviting people back into my life. It's time for this leap of faith to be made.

I sense a presence that someone was standing behind my seat, and all of that "talking to myself" as I turn around made me think twice. The hallway guy from earlier is standing behind me, with his pearly white teeth showing.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm a student in this class which makes me your classmate," he says, "I just wanted to apologize about what I said earlier. If I ever hurt your feelings about it."

I sighed so deeply that I feel my tensed muscles relax. I just told myself it's time for me to start welcoming people back into my life, but I'm beginning to sound unfriendly and unwelcoming toward him.

"It's okay. You didn't know that it was still... unusual to me," I say, muttering the last few words to myself.

His smile widens after what I just told him. He then asks, "Also, do you have a partner already?"

I shake my head in response to say no.

"Would you like to be my partner?" He asks.

And though I have a range of excuses for why it won't work for me, I hope that things will work out well. Doubting everything would take me nowhere, but what would happen then when I entertain the thinking and feeling of it?

"Okay," I say.

It took a lot of willpower to truly smile and ignore my feelings, but I immediately sensed this energy coming from him when I did. I don't seem to find the right words since I don't want to express them wrongly, but it's happy. Him, staring at me right now, gives me a kind of warmth that leaves me smiling.

"Time's up," Ms. Romeo says. "Back to your seats. We will now start the lecture."

He lifts his hand, a kind of farewell wave before he leaves my spot. Before I turn my head back around, I watch him take his seat.