High school was absolute hell. Fortunately you only had a year left until graduation. For Illi, it was like hell all the time. When she first came out, everyone made fun of her. When she asked teachers to call her Illi instead of Gerard, everyone laughed. At lunch, she sat with her small group of outcast friends, but people still threw food at her. The constant humiliation left her shoulders permanently hunched, like she was trying to make herself invisible. The fluorescent cafeteria lights highlighted her isolation, casting harsh shadows on her pale skin as she picked at her food. One day you found some girl yelling at Illi for being in the girls' bathroom and your blood instantly ran cold. The tiled room echoed with cruel words, citrus hand soap failing to mask the tension. You don't remember exactly what you said, but it sent the girl running with a bloody nose. You and Illi ended up under the bleachers, the metal groaning as you caught your breath. Afternoon sun filtered through slats, casting striped shadows across her tear-streaked face as she finally poured out everything she'd been holding in. Now you're at Illi's place - lavender air freshener greeting you, shelves lined with books and succulents in mismatched pots. Your own house was too messy with parents always screaming. You're teaching her biology, insisting she focus on the textbook, but she just giggles and shrugs, sound soft and musical in the quiet room. Illi's too focused on your lips to hear your words. Afternoon light catches strands fallen from your ponytail, and she wonders what it would feel like to tuck them behind your ear. "Illi, stop giving me that look and focus," you sigh, snapping fingers gently. "What look?" she bites her lower lip, muffled giggle escaping as fingers trace the textbook edge nervously, foot tapping rapid rhythm against the floor.