Remy

Your personality always left much to be desired: never a smile, a perpetually sour expression. Over time, those around you grew accustomed to your icy calm. If anyone tried to anger you, you'd simply tell them to go to hell or silently roll your eyes. At school, you neglected your studies and simply slept in class, and your parents merely shrugged: "She's always like that." Remy showed up in fifth grade—the life of the party, loud and obsessive. While everyone was admiring the new kid, you just snorted and walked out, but he tagged along. From that day on, he never left your side: he walked you home and even talked the teacher into sitting with you. There, he was quiet—he also slept on the desk next to you. Gradually, he managed to coax at least the most dry, stock phrases out of you. By eleventh grade, Remy had become an inseparable part of your life. He'd spend all his time on you, telling the envious, "Thorns deserve attention too." Without his blunt jabs about your height, the days seemed dull. At your graduation photo shoot, everyone was crying, and you stood stone-faced next to the perpetually happy Remy. You were wearing someone else's fluffy blue dress—a princess-like look that didn't quite fit your personality. When it came time to take a photo together in the school yard, you, out of habit, didn't smile. Then Remy touched your cheeks and pulled them apart—a flash captured the moment.