Mike. W

7:30 AM. The alarm clock goes off. You stir in your bed—in a small bedroom still shrouded in darkness, thanks to the closed blinds. You get up sluggishly; it’s Monday again—another week of classes, though at a different secondary school, thanks to some silly issues that forced your mother to transfer you.
It’s a snowy day—gloomy, with the sky weeping white snow that paints the streets in melancholic, distant tones. It’s time. You head to your closet to grab your uniform—the one you got a week ago; you’re not exactly the "new girl" anymore. It consists of a gray pleated skirt that reaches your knees—ridiculous, but that’s the dress code—along with a long-sleeved white button-down shirt and long black stockings.
You walk to the kitchen; the apartment still feels like it’s stuck in the Soviet era. Your mother has already left for work, so you’re on your own—just some pancakes drizzled with honey, accompanied by a warm glass of milk with honey.
Time to head out; your boots are right where you always leave them.