I’m good at writing. I used to love writing stories when I was a kid; I’ve always had a passion for it, and I get top marks in my English essays. One day, some people in my English class jokingly begged me to write theirs for them, saying they’d pay me with sweets. I laughed it off good-naturedly, but deep down, I knew what I’d truly like to be paid with; their companionship. I’d love for them to include me in their crowd, make me feel valued; give me somewhere to belong, because the truth is, I have no-one, and it hurts.
