It's frustrating, maddening, and upsetting, but, most of all, I feel out of place and kind of frightened. As I walk across the room, a memory flashes in my eyes of Puck, Finn, and the other football players harassing me. I know Puck and Finn have changed, but it still scares me. Puck is a bully on instinct. It's not (completely) his fault, no, but it's still scary.

            I sit in a chair by them, but the other boys don't seem to notice me. I sigh, knowing I won't have a say in anything; I'll just have to go along, most likely singing backup vocals to whatever they choose.

            Finn turns to me, saying, "What's wrong?" He looks more confused than worried.

            Trying my best to look confused, I ask, "What do you mean? Nothing's wrong."

            He replies, "Then why did you sigh like that?"

            Shoot... "Nothing's wrong, Finn," I say again.

            Finn still looks doubtful, but he drops the subject anyway. I sigh, this time in relief and exasperation. As we (meaning everyone but me) discuss songs, Finn keeps looking back at me, maybe even worriedly. I shake my head, and he, with one final glance, ignores me for the rest of the lesson. He acts as if nothing happened; it almost upsets me, but I should know better. At least, for a few seconds, he—someone—seemed to care. It's too bad I couldn't tell Finn, for I don't know the answer; I don't know what's wrong, but I was lying when I said it was nothing.

            "Dude?" Artie asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.

            Groggily, I automatically mumble, "Huh?" I blink slowly and look up to see him and Mike staring at me.

            "School's over," Artie says slowly, giving me a confused look (like "o...kay then...") "And we're meeting in Mr. Z's room on Thursday to discuss."

            "Oh. Okay, thanks..."

            Mike shrugs in response, while Artie gives me a nod, starting to wheel himself out of the room. Mike looks back at me confusedly but finally leaves when I don't move. Sighing, I close my eyes and sit back in my seat. I hear yelling and slamming lockers, one voice being Dave Karofsky... I cringe as I remember. Dave is the one who bullies me most, the one who scares me half to death each time I pass him in the hall. I wait, hoping he won't see me in here.

***

(A/N: Will's POV:)

            I walk into the choir room to do some paperwork. I sit down at my desk when I notice something--or, rather someone. Curled up in a chair, is Kurt. His knees are bent and his legs tucked under him, feet dangling off the side. I watch the boy curiously. He is cuddling with what appears to be a navy blue zip-up hoodie sweatshirt (one I can't imagine him ever wearing), hugging it close to him near his face. As I walk closer, I notice he's most likely asleep; his face is stained with tears, I think. I can almost see him trembling in fear...no, I must be imagining it. I've never seen—never imagined I would see—him look so vulnerable...

            I am now right next to him. "Kurt?" I ask, concerned. When he doesn't stir, I kneel by the chair and touch his arm lightly. He flinches and I frown. What is he dreaming about? "Kurt," I repeat, louder this time, and the boy finally opens his eyes.

            "Mr. Schue?" Kurt yawns, scrunching his eyebrows together in puzzlement. "What are you doing here?"

            "Well, Kurt, I could be asking you the same thing," I tell him.

            "Huh?" He sits up, still hugging the hoodie, and looks around. His eyes widen and he asks, "Uh, what time is it?!"

            "It's about four-thirty..."

            "My dad's probably so worried about me!" The boy gets up off the chair, so I stand up as well. "Can I call him?"

            I say, "The office will let you use the phone," surprised he doesn't have a cell phone.

            Kurt hesitates at the doorway; he appears to be looking around the hall, then he breathes out and starts on his way. I wish I could've asked him what happened, but he did say his dad would be worried. Maybe I can ask him tomorrow...

***

(Kurt's POV:)

            I run down the hallway (how ironic) and into the office. I can't believe I fell asleep! I only meant to stay until the noises in the hall subsided. I'm not that worried about being late--I could always say I was in the library, studying--but I had to get away before I started crying and/or Mr. Schue asked what was wrong. I don't know how to answer that; I wish people would just stop asking.

            I probably should call Dad, though. "Excuse me?" I ask the secretary. I hate how my voice sounds so small. "C-Can I use the phone?"

            She smiles at me kindly and gestures to the phone on her desk. I give her a soft smile in appreciation and dial my home phone number. "Dad--"

            "Kurt? Where have you been? Why are you so late?"

            "I was in the library and kind of lost track of time...I'm just calling so you know I'm alright." I hate lying to him, but what else can I say? He wouldn't understand.

            "Alright, Bud. I was just worried, that's all."

            "I understand. I'm sorry. I'll be home soon. Love you."

            "Love you too. Bye."

            "Bye," I answer before hanging up.

            I say a quiet "thank you" to the lady before leaving to my locker.

***

                My car…What did those imbeciles do to it? Why? I never did anything to them. I did not choose to be gay, and even if I did, how does my choice affect them at all? I really shouldn’t be shocked, but this just didn’t cross my mind. They (probably football players) egged and threw toilet paper all over my car. I shakily walk up to it. As I inspect the car, I realize there is no damage done—thank goodness.

                However, those idiots probably apparently didn’t think that was enough because what is that? A three-letter word (the smallest of all things) breaks my heart into pieces. I stare at the front of my car, tears pooling in my eyes.

                I walk into the school—no, stomp—to see if anyone will help. After a few minutes, I decide to see if the janitor’s closet is open. Thankfully it’s unlocked. I take a bucket of water and a sponge.

                When I’m back outside, I scrub furiously, starting with the hood. The marker on my car washes away, but the derogatory name is written on my heart in permanent ink. The memory will never fade—I’ll tell you that much. A single word has so much power—power to hurt, more than any bruises or scars ever could.

                When the car is finally clean, I make my way home. (I’ve returned the supplies to the closet—I’m not a thief.) I finally fling open the door to my house, hoping to sneak passed Dad. Of course—he’s right there in the living room, waiting for me. His first question is: “Where were you?”

                “I called you—” I try, but he’s not having any of it.

                “I got that call an hour ago. Where were you after that?”

                “Um…I…uh…” My heart pounds rapidly as I try to think of an excuse. I really should’ve thought of that.

                I don’t get to finish my thought because Dad’s asking another question. “Wait…” his eyes soften, just a bit. “Why are you crying?”

                “I—It’s nothing, Dad.” The words feel like a lie coming out of my mouth. It’s not “nothing”—the word really did hurt. Oh, this is going to bother me for a while, isn’t it?

                “Kurt…You can tell me anything.”

                Suddenly I wonder why it is I don’t want to tell him; it’s not like I did anything wrong. Still, I don't want him to worry. “Please don’t worry, Dad. You can’t do anything about mean kids at school. I’m going up to my room, okay?” I actually ask, wanting my dad to agree. I think it’s because of guilt; I know he’s worrying his head off, so the least I can do is to not run away from him. I offer him a sad smile.

                Dad hesitates. Then he looks at me and nods. “Okay, Kurt. I’ll get you when dinner’s ready.”

                “Thanks, Dad. Love you.” I don’t know why I said it. It suddenly feels I haven’t been telling him that enough. I give him a hug and walk up the stairs.

                “Love you too, Bud.”

                I walk up the stairs and I flop face-down on my bed. The tears begin to fall. I sob heavily into my pillow, like a child. “I’m sorry…” I say, to no one, to everyone.

                “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, God—if you exist—that I’m gay. I’m sorry, Dad, that I’m gay, and that I’m not nearly as good a son as I could be. I’m sorry, Mom, that I didn’t spend enough time with you and that I didn’t tell you I loved you enough times. I’m sorry, Finn, for chasing after you and creeping you out. I’m sorry, Mr. Schue, I’m sorry, Rachel, Mercedes, I’m sorry for all you guys because you have to put up with my existence. I—I’m sorry Willow ‘cause I don’t know your real name and ‘cause I ignored you during French by saying things you don’t understand. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” I would scream if my dad wasn’t home. Instead I take a deep breath, and another one, and another one…

                Calm down, Kurt. I grab my pillow and hold it close to me. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. The pillow doesn’t smell particularly good, but it’s soothing…no one gets it. I can feel a headache coming on from all the crying. I’m nothing but a girl, a fairy, a homo, a … a fag…

                I hear someone coming. Quickly, I get off the bed and pick up my satchel from the floor. I unzip it and take out my Science homework. My dad opens the door right when I’ve sat back down. “Kurt? I heard you crying…If it’s that bad, won’t you please tell me what happened?” he begs.

                I’m sorry I keep telling lies. “D-Dad…I just kind of needed to let it out…I’m fine now, really.” If I don’t promise, the lies aren’t real.

                “Kurt, really. What happened?”

                “Please!” I yell, frustrated. I feel so bad about yelling at him…“I-I’m so sorry…just…can you please leave me alone?”

                “Kurt…” he sighs. “Remember, you can tell me anything. Remember that I love you.”

                “I know. I love you too.”

                “No, really. I. Love. You.”

                After a few seconds, Dad says, “Dinner’s going to be ready in about an hour.”

                “Okay,” I say quietly. He walks out the door. I get up and walk to the bathroom in my room. I stare at my reflection—I look like such a mess. I’m sorry I’m so ugly. I catch a glimpse of metal on the counter. I’ve heard about it so many times…maybe…it might work for me…I have to at least try—anything to stop the pain.