I was never supposed to be here in the first place. My dad moved us to New York at the end of 8th grade once my parents got divorced. My brother went with my mom and I went with my dad. I started going to a new high school in November. 

When I got there, everyone was already in their own groups, so it wasnt really easy to make friends again. Honesty, I’ve never really had friends. I’ve realized they’re a waste of time; you always just end up getting hurt. I had one friend at the beginning of 8th grade, her name was Connie. She always pretended to be my friend and used me to get close to my brother. She’s history though; I never needed her anyways. I’ll never forgive her for that. I asked her if that was why she was friends with me that whole time she started crying and apologizing. Pathetic.

So here I am, sitting in the back of history class, doodling on my paper. The popular kids in the front. Making jokes and being loud. That’s how it always goes. The popular kids are loud and funny. Right? For a while, I thought that it was so important to try and be popular. I stopped caring a little while ago. The bell rang; I started to pack my bag.

I got home to our small apartment on Benson Street. I went straight to my room since my dad was still on his shift. I didn’t bother doing homework, I just didn’t have the energy to do it. I went to the kitchen and started to heat up some leftover food for dinner. I put everything on the table, then I went back to my bedroom. My dad should be coming home sometime soon.

It’s always like that. Go to school. Come back. Wait for my dad and start dinner. I went on my phone. My classmates were posting pictures of how good their lives are, not having to worry about things other than school. Sometimes I imagine having a good family, playing games and laughing together. 

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair,” I think to myself.

Tears slowly fall down my cheeks, wishing my life was how it was all those years ago.