Life bothered him.

He couldn't stand any of it. The meaningless cliques everyone so conveniently fell into. the pathetic ideals people stood up for. Where was the purpose? Where was the goal to strive for? As far as he could see, there was none. None, but survival. And some people called him cynical.

He would have laughed in their faces, but he doubted his amusement would land him anyplace good. They were all too blind to see what, to him, was so obviously redundant. They were caught up in their perfectly molded statues, wrapped so tightly in prejudices and superficial facades.

It disgusted him.

The school days wore on the same way, the students played the same notes in rehearsed symphonies, and his life, as far as he knew it, was convicted to stay in the same beat of mundane repetition forever.

At least his pessimism allowed him a surprise.

"Keep this embrace or perish in lonely winds."

Not another romantic, he thought, as he passed a girl sitting on a low concrete wall outside the school. Her pen twirled in her fingers while her dangling feet tapped against the wall. Focused eyes traced the words on her notebook paper; her lips formed the silent words for only her own ears to hear.

He stopped walking.

A gentle wind teased the girl's hair, forcing it to sway hesitantly. The sun danced in her emerald eyes. Her burgundy scarf complimented the red tint of her auburn hair. Rose cheeks blushed in the autumn cold. Though she was no vision of immaculate beauty, the fall weather inspired a captivating glow. He noticed none of it.

What attracted him was her inwardness. He stood in front of her, and she hardly acknowledged him. All she cared for was the set of words written on her notebook. That, he knew, was what really animated her. She glanced up.

"Hello," she said. She still twirled the pen in her hand, feet still tapped the wall. Nothing about her changed; her face was as distant as it had been when she was writing. She made no outwardly move to judge him. Who is she?

"Hi," he choked out. What was this? Losing control over a girl who's slightly different?

He admired her difference, he truly did. Everyone else he talked to had judged him before he even walked up to him - he could tell by the look on his face.. They analyzed him, placed him in a category, gave him a title, and denied him a chance. He hated their categories.

She - he could tell - was not part of one. She was not part of them. She must have been alone, like him. A creature so kind could not be part of their cliques and their systems, their feudal societies entwined around "friendships" and laced with codes.

"My name's Mae," she introduced. Her smile was light and welcoming; so different from the smirks and laughter he usually had to greet. "You're Lucien, right?"

He nodded slowly. What should he say? This situation was so foreign to him. How should he act? What if he scared her away?

"I hear you like to write," she said, now rubbing the pen nervously. She bit her lip.

"Yeah, I've written a few things," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Neat." Her gaze turned sharply towards the parking lot; her face fell. "I'd like to read them sometime. You're in my language class, right?" He nodded. "I thought so. You always sit alone. Sit with us sometime, we don't bite." She hopped off the wall and scrambled to organize her bag. He noted that her notebook was carefully tucked in, though most of her bag spewed a chaotic mess of papers and books. "Well, I have to go. See you around?"

He nodded again, and watched her go. She joined a group of girls, and suddenly was no longer the dreamer he had met - she did not envelope herself in one goal or activity. She had been so perfect.

A wave of confusion splashed across his face. Wait a minute.

She still was perfect. He knew that, just as she hadn't judged him, he could not judge her simply by the people she hung out with or the clothes she wore. In scorning the "judges", he had, in turn, judged them.

Somehow, she had touched him. It wasn't anything tangible he could sense, but some odd feeling penetrated him - a change so miniscule vibrated through him. He wasn't sure if he was surrendering to their beliefs, or finding truth in them. He couldn't tell if he was conforming, or simply connecting. The swirl of life and society was just not one he could hide from any longer.