The Diary of an Emo Girl: Chapter One.

I sit there, in that one seat in homeroom everyday. Watching kids laugh and stare at my face, as if its the funniest thing they've ever seen. But what they don't know is this: I cut myself each night, in order to feel something. I'm not just some gothic chick keeping to herself each day. I don't wear black eyeliner for nothing. I don't sit in the back of the room, looking at my wrists because I like the look of them. I don't listen to rap. I'm not just some girl who has mental issues. I am me. I am emo. 1

Everyday people get stereotyped and labeled. But most of the time, its me. I am the girl who walks around the halls by myself and wears black and has wears my bangs in a sweep over to hide my hurtful eyes from everyone else's stares. 2

I listen halfheartedly to the biology lecture my teacher is giving us and jot down notes I probably won't need. I sigh as spitballs dart toward the unlucky targets. One lands on my shoulders and I flick it off, hitting the attacker between the eyes. I half smile then look back down at my book again. My hair falls in my eyes and I flip it off absentmindedly. 3

Then, thank God, the bell rings. Slowly, I collect my books and head out of the room toward my locker. I pass Hans on the way, the only boy who would understand me. He smiles briefly and I stand there like a moron, marveling at his beauty. He could have well been the most spectacular boy in the world, but he doesn't seem to notice all of the girl's drooling at his feet. 4

His face, half covered like mine, is a smooth, rich, tan color that any male model would peel his own skin off for. His deep brown eyes are a rich blanket of warmth wherever his gaze lands. But his dark, velvety hair keeps me hypnotized every day. My own brown hair never could compete with his luscious black locks. 5

I come out of my daydream and smile back at him and return to my locker, pressing the combination furiously. I barely notice Hans approaching me. In the past two years I've known him, we've only talked at most seven times, but today, he seems undaunted and courageous as he leans on a neighboring locker.6

"Chloe," he says. "What's up?" I marvel again at his smooth voice and shrug weakly in reply, my head down. He sighs and puts a hand on my shoulder. In reaction, I flinch slightly, but he doesn't seem to notice. He leans forward and gives me a light yet comforting hug. I feel weak at the knees. He notices and backs up, his hand still clasped on my shoulder for support. He smiles warmly and I fear I may faint. "Chloe," he repeats. "We've known each other for awhile and I've noticed you don't look good." He pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I am too breathless to utter a word. He continues. "Chloe, I just....I just want you to know that I'm there for you. Whatever it is. I am here. I'd do anything for-" He breaks off, and I just hope to hear the words I want, but to no avail. "I'd do anything for a friend like you." He turns briskly and walks toward his next class. His words are promising, but I know he can do nothing. My head down, I murmur "I love you," after him, but he doesn't notice. A tear slips down my cheek and I hurry toward my next class.