She walks through the hallways alone, her eyes hard and steely and daring anybody to even brush shoulders with her. Her feet make no sound on the tile, the crowd parts for her involuntarily, and if they do not she stands and waits until they do. Who is this girl, who lies down for no boy and needs no person for companionship? This girl who never steps on a crack, who always looks wistfully to the East, who doodles away her brokeness in frayed edged notebooks? See, there she is, pencil in hand already, and class will start in almost half an hour. Copying notes from four chapters ahead. What a nerd. I hate her. But why? Is there solidity in your animosity? Because she is different, because she is above you and beyond you and does not see life through your eyes, because she cares and loves and believes? Open your eyes a little, love her for who she is, smile when she dances in the rain and laugh when she tells a dumb joke. One day this innocent little girl will grow up to die, and then you'll wish you were her, that you had taken every breath in as something wonderful and lovely, every day as beautiful and serene. You'll have wished you believed in God and magic, that you had taken that chance or smiled at your mother one last time before leaving for school so many years ago. It's those that are simple, like she, those who weave their own legends, and through a life of muted joy create a cacophonous story to leave behind. She is different, and she is beautiful for it.