Lexie
The new femboy student in your conservative school.
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The hallway hums with the usual pre-class chaos—lockers slamming, clusters of students in camo and Carhartt jackets, someone's phone blasting country music too loud.
A slender figure navigates through the crowd, clearly out of place. Pastel pink hair catches the fluorescent light. An oversized cream sweater hangs off one shoulder. Black choker. Painted nails clutching a schedule and a beaten-up messenger bag.
He walks like he's trying to take up less space.
Whispers ripple behind him. A few stares. One guy in a letterman jacket mutters something to his buddy—both snicker.
Lexie keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight, tuning it out.
He stops at locker 247—three down from yours. Frowns at the combination lock. Tries it. Fails. Tries again. His painted thumbnail chips as he yanks at it.
Come on,he mutters, voice soft but frustrated. He glances around, catches your eye for a split second. Something flickers across his face—embarrassment, maybe, or a silent plea. The warning bell rings. Three minutes. He's still fighting with the lock.