My eyes sting with tears, my ratted brown hair sticking to my pale face as I walk through this high schools hallways, alone and terrified. My baggy shirt hitting my mid thigh with my hoodie–his hoodie–loosely wrapped around my body, my once tight blue jeans now, baggy sweatpants and my once nice high heeled platform shoes, now ratted tennis shoes with holes starting to dig in the top.

I walk to my locker, the one that looks just like the others, a shiny yellow half locker that has been beaten and dented throughout its uses, shakily undoing the lock on it and setting it on the top shelf–middle shelf. I can't help but drift my eyes over to his locker. Cards, balloons and stuffed animals are tapped to his locker. He would've hated it. He hates presents. I turn back to my locker, looking into the vastness of it and closing my eyes so the tears won't leave my eyes. He hates it when I cry and wouldn't hated it if I cried over him.

I reach for my textbook sitting at the bottom of my locker, longing to see his hand reach over and touch mine and his other hand to grab the book and hand it to me like I couldn't get it. "Hey Mae," their voice is so soft it made me jump. My eyes widen in fear as I turn my head, looking at the African American student council leader. "I heard about your boyfriend."

Who hasn't heard about him. I hear her lightly scoff;since I didn't answer, and I grab my World History;Literature textbook, grab my lock, close and lock my locker and head to my next class. I sit in the back, like we would everyday and sit in my seat, studying every pencil and pen marking on the wooden, falling apart desk, our names circles in a larges circles multiple times that he drew while I wrote our names.

Mae Davis & Tyler Brooks 5ever

I look away. I can't look at that stuff anymore. The bell rings in my ears and I jump, looking at the clock as the bell ring, the chatter of students and blocking it out as they walk in, soon slowing down to nothing as they look at me. They all sit down, our teacher walking in and lifting his giant grey brows at us being so quiet for once. He clears his throat and turns to the chalkboard and picks up the white chalk,  hovers his hand on the board, writes something then turns to us, slamming his hands on his old wooden desk. I study the word behind him, unable to detect why he wrote it in his horribly dented, big block letter hand writing.

MURDER

§•§•§

"Murder. It has struck this town and no one can do a thing about it but find the person who caused it. It is also in many amounts of literature, that we will be discussing for the next few weeks as the trial and murder case of our very own student athlete Tyler Brooks, is being solved," Mr.Henrys voice booms in the silent classroom. I hear shifting and feet tapping, pencils tapping, fingernails hitting desks, incoherent muttering and the void of nothingness building in my chest. "Now, today's class will be dedicated to Mr.Brooks, would anyone like to start to discussion?"

No one moves. No one breaths. No one does anything. Everything falls as silent as it would be if Tyler started to discuss the latest book we were reading with Mr.Henry in the middle of class, everyone interested by the interaction and how Tyler would talk in depth. Just because Tyler spoke his mind during class about a book;He was easily Mr.Henrys favorite student. I wasn't as into literature as he was, but, "I still love him." As if lightning had struck the sand on the beach, everyone was facing me with either anger or sadness in their eyes.

"Correct, Ms.Davis, we all loved Mr.Brooks. How he would bring a smile into any room and how he would argue about books on end with anyone," he looks at me as everyone else slowly turns away from me, keeping their heads down. "But no one could have loved him as much as you, Ms.Davis."

"Correction," Lindsay Stander holds her hand in the air. "His parents love him more."

"Or does she?" Screw you Lindsay, now he'll go on a philosophical rant. He moved to the front of his desk, his grey hair bounded to his head but moving as he bounced in his walk, the limp in his right leg growing louder and louder as the years grew on. "Once Mr.Brooks was born his parents were forced to love him, him being apart and are them and loving the person he would have become whether he was an actor, or continued his sports careers. But Ms.Davis here, would have seen past the block his parents had and would have loved him for who he was under everything he hid from his parents." He leans against his desk, his hands gripping the hanging wood that was now and forevermore lose because of how many times he had done that. "Would anyone like to add on?"

"He loved sports," Scott Admin says. Tyler, he admired them. He always wanted to become a professional.

"Yeah," Macee Olsen adds with her small squeaky voice on the other side of me. She never went to any of his games, but everyone always knew he got the winning score. "He always won every game."

"Ah yes," Mr.Henry laughs, his brown eyes sad but still shinning as if no one had seen the pain he had for loosing his favorite student. The bell and chatter of other students drown out his voice before he can say another word. I sit at my desk for a few seconds, my eyes lacing around his writing that was crooked, facing his desk.

Tyler Loves Mae