CHAPTER ONE

Hey, my name's Rockie. Kinda awkward for a girl, don't you think? Yeah, I know. Like, what were my parents thinking when they named me after rocks? People at school mock me for it—they say I look like a rock.

I mean, what does that even mean? Do I look like a lump of earth? A broken piece of a mountain? A tiny pebble lost in a sea of other tiny pebbles? I asked someone once, and they just laughed. So, I stopped asking.

Anyway, let's start from the beginning. You probably only know my name, but there's more to me than that. I'm fifteen, socially awkward (to say the least), and have zero communication skills—well, except with animals. Sometimes, I swear I can understand them. I love to believe it, even if I know it's not real.

Today is November 15, 2020. Mom dragged me out shopping again. She says she loves 'browsing'—I say she's a professional window-shopper. The market smelled like too many things at once: fresh bread, fried meat, something suspiciously rotten. A lady bumped into me, her perfume so strong I nearly choked. And guess who had to carry all the bags? Right. Me.

It's funny how Mom always finds a way to spend hours looking at things she doesn't even buy. I tried sneaking a candy bar into the basket once, just to test if she'd notice. Spoiler alert: she did. And I got a lecture about 'wasting money'—which is ironic, considering she spent twenty minutes debating between two nearly identical purses and bought neither.

Have you ever wondered if you're the one without friends, or if friends just don't have you? I've always wanted to know. I seem to have answers for every question—except the ones about my own life. Weird, right? Someone once told me something really profound, and I just had to write it down:

"Do you have a best friend? Do you want to have a best friend? Are you a best friend to someone else?"

Five years have passed, and I've only been able to answer the first two questions:

"No." And "Yes."

But the last one? How am I supposed to know if I'm a friend to someone when no one even wants me as theirs? Friends are like stray cats—either they don't want you, or they disappear when you finally get attached. I learned that the hard way.

They call me weirdo. Yeah, I remember now—the person who told me those words. Her name was Pride. And I loved her very much. Pride had a way of making words sound like gold. I think that's why I held onto hers so tightly. Too bad words aren't enough to keep people from leaving.

Sometimes, I still hear her voice in my head, asking me those same three questions. Maybe I imagine it because I don't want to forget her. Or maybe it's my brain's way of torturing me. Either way, the question still lingers. And so does the empty space where she used to be.

It's exactly 10:00 at night. Any minute now, Mom's going to come marching up the stairs to check if I'm still awake. But I already have a plan. I'll just shove my diary under my pillow until she's gone. Then, I'll keep writing.

Problem is… I think she already knows my plan.

Mothers. Always right about everything. Even when they're wrong, they're right. It's a special superpower they unlock after childbirth.

I tried asking Mom once if she regretted naming me Rockie. She just smiled and said, "Rocks are strong, and so are you." Yeah. Strong. Like how they get kicked around and stepped on. I didn't argue, though. Moms don't like being wrong.

Ugh. I can't believe tomorrow is Monday. The first day of school. Again. I actually enjoyed my holiday for once, and now it's over. I'd rather stay home, but of course, Mom insists I go.

Maybe she hopes I'll magically stop being weird if I spend enough time around normal people. Spoiler alert again: it hasn't worked so far.

Tomorrow is Monday. School. People. Socializing. I should start drafting my survival plan now.

So… here we go.