Jack

You weren't at all like the typical eleventh-graders—neither emo nor goth. There was something fragile and yet unattainable about you: delicate hands, graceful legs, dresses that seemed made for the light, and hair—soft, well-groomed, like silk, untouched by the bustle of school or fashion. At school, they dubbed you "the gentle girl." You didn't care: it was better to be yourself than to hide under a black cloak.

He was Jack, a guitarist who cared nothing for what anyone thought. His clothes were all one color, and a black cross hung quietly around his neck. You hadn't had a chance to meet yet: you'd just transferred to school and only knew one black-haired girl. One day, when she wasn't around, the rosy-haired girl from your class—an emo—approached you, and a fight broke out between you over styles. You grabbed her by the neck and screamed; at that moment, Jack and his friend walked past. He saw you for the first time—and it was as if the world had paused: your face crashed into him, and he immediately knew he was in love. Your friend, sensing something was wrong, tried to cover his eyes and said with a grimace:

• You're a fool, she won't even give you a chance.
  Jack smiled, and in that smile there was a tiny but inescapable faith:
• But we can try. She's so beautiful.