The Smile that Changed my Mind

I take off my bag and leave it outside the restroom at school. Suddenly, all my emotions were overwhelming me like some high tide ready to devour me. I walk in the restroom full of girls who put on makeup and laugh and talk.

I lock myself in the restroom stall. I don’t sit down. I just grab toilet paper and cry as my thoughts wounded my heart.

No one likes me.

My best friend moved away.

My other best friend is in a different school.

I can’t bear the thought of talking to my childhood friend because I’m scared if I get too close to him, I’ll lose him like I do to all my other friends. I promised never to lose another friend, but what happened? M. moved away to another state. V. is in a school that my school considers the enemy and a ridiculous school, even scoffing at the mere mention of its name. And L….

Oh, L., why did I ever stop talking to you…? I nearly fell in love with you and you to me, but I was so scared of you ever abandoning me that I… I left you.

And my grades! Everyone expects me to be some star student based on my race, based on my studious actions, based on everything and anything they hold against me. I want to have fun–no, I want to speak to someone, anyone! I miss L., V., and M.. I need them so much.

I used to think I could be alone–to be forgotten and obscure. I thought that doing that would get me out of people’s way. But here I am, crying in the restroom, begging for a friend.

I stifle my cries with the toilet paper and dry my tears.

I almost walk out until I realize—


To kill myself would solve all my problems? Would it? No… No–NO! I don’t want to leave the people who love me, but I don’t want to be in pain… No, that’s greedy. I’m too greedy.

I push those thoughts away, store them in a chest, and lock it with a key. It’s too terrible to think about.

I walk out, flushing the toilet so no one would be suspicious, and one of my classmates sees me. “Hi, Rocky!” she says with glee.

“Hey…” I reply silently before walking out quickly.

I grab my bag and sit down in class, maybe even three minutes before the class starts.

“Hi,” I hear.

I look to my left–some guy is talking to me?

“Hey,” I reply.



“Wazz your name?”

My eyebrows knit together as I repeat, confused, “What?”

The guy pauses, takes a breath, and repeats, “What’s your name?”

“Oh–oh,” I stammer, embarrassed that I couldn’t get his question right through my head. “Y–yeah. I’m Rocky.”



He smiles, and it stabs my heart like a knife. “Well, I’m D..”

I can’t help but talk more. I was just contemplating suicide a couple minutes ago, and I can’t help but continue talking. (I always talk a lot when I’m nervous). “Wow, I’ll try to remember that. I’m sorry if I don’t get it right. It’s really hard for me to remember names and faces.”

“Oh, really?”

Why am I talking?

“Yeah, there was one time where I saw one of my childhood friends in summer, and he was like, ‘Hey, I didn’t know you were here!’ and I was just like… ‘What?’

“He just said, ‘Come on, don’t you remember me?’

“I was just like, ‘Uh… no.'”

D. is smiling again, and I feel slightly happy.

“He was just like, ‘You seriously don’t remember me? You talked to me for a long time!!’

” ‘When?’

” ‘We’ve known each other since we were little!!’ he screams.

D. laughs.

“Seriously, D., I probably won’t remember your name, so… sorry, ha…” I say, laughing just in response to his own laugh.

“Nah, that’s okay. How did you do in the last test?” he asks.

“Oh, a hundred,” I reply quickly.

His eyes open wide. “What?¬†What? Are you serious?”

I smile; his bewilderment is my amusement. “Yeah. You?”

He sighs. “No, I got a bad grade…” he mutters. “I don’t know how you do it.”

The conversation went on for a while. Now, every time I see D., he says my name and says hello.

Every time I feel bad or sad, I just remember smiling. Try it out for yourself if you have a bad day–it works.

I was really going through some emotional junk back then. I’m alright now, if that’s what you’re wondering. I recently saw my friend from California and eat lunch with my other friend and her friends at the other school also. L. is… I don’t know. I don’t think about him so much anymore. I’ve made a lot of friends since then too.

I also hate the fact that I thought about committing suicide–I mean, seriously? Nothing is worth taking your life away! So on my sixteenth birthday, I wished never to think of doing such a thing ever again. Life is precious.

Just seeing someone smile–anyone–made me realize that life is good, in fact, it’s pretty awesome. So, I don’t know how you are today, but I hope you have a good day and smile! ūüėÄ


Random Question!

Question #100 according to

What inspires you?

It really depends.

Hmm… Well, a bunch of things inspire me. Movies, TV shows, books, life, nature, pictures, sometimes even history… I don’t know what else is inspiring.

Well, a long time ago, when I was nine, I do remember a particular dream that set that spark in my head. It was a dream where I was a princess living in a tower. I wasn’t some average girly princess like in Disney movies (please, no), but I was a princess with magical powers. I don’t know where my parents or my sister were, so it was kind of lonely. It was a lot of fun though. That tower was powered by imagination, where the sky was the limit–actually, the tower was so tall, it went beyond the earth’s atmosphere and into outer space! Every room you can imagine was in that tower.

The second I woke up, I created that dream into some role-playing game that I let my little sister play with me. We’ve had so many magical adventures, fights, and tragedies.

I even made up a part where my sister had a twin brother. The two of them were the closest siblings you could ever imagine, but one day, when my sister stopped playing with me, I got upset and messed things up for “her twin brother”.

I made him lose an eye and an arm, but eventually, after some thought, I let him bionic replacements. He became the commander of a military when he was 10, after his considerable contributions to ending the war of a kingdom.

Sorry, I’m ranting. Back to the question?

A lot of what I write (stories that I never finish writing but finish thinking about) seem to end tragically or something like that. The way I write is kind of tragic as well. I just like tragic things–in a way, I feel they’re more realistic than fairy tale stories and better than life stories that feature all the happiness (don’t get me wrong, I write about things like that too). Stories that have siblings ripped apart, hearts broken, lives torn, wars created, forbidden love, death traps, haunting ghosts, murderers who are secretly kind, doing evil for the good–those are the types of stories I write. I also like opposing ideas (I think that’s what it’s called?), like with the kind murderer, evil for good, and secretly good type of thing. It’s also fun when you develop a character and make them rise through all their pain and faults and occasionally make them fall down in a deeper pit anyway yet grow stronger–I guess I relate better to characters like that.


I look up at the blue sky, not a care in the world. Nothing to me matters except having acceptable grades and a happy life.

Yes… my life is carefree, and I’m one of the smartest students in my small class. But something’s missing. What is it?

Two disturbing years pass as I try to answer that question. What is missing? I scream in frustration, in my head of course. I am¬†known as the quietest girl not in the grade but in the whole school, which offered grade levels from a three-year-old’s to an eighth grader.


I turn and come face-to-face with someone whose face I had forgotten years ago.

L. looks at me with his huge innocent brown eyes, waiting for an answer. Without words, he begs me to say something–absolutely anything. He wouldn’t care if I said I hated him. He just wants to talk. I walk away. This is what I’ve forgotten and need, but I’m scared to admit it. I need someone to talk to besides my best friend–someone who knows me inside and out, the face behind the mask, someone who likes me for me, even with my darkest secrets that hurt them. And it just had to be him.


Sometimes I forget everything in life and focus on the negatives, but when I take all the negatives away and remember someone else is probably having a worse day than me, I realize how many things I take for granted and forget.

I’m happy to have a house with my amazing, wonderful family. I’m glad to have a pet dog, a sister, and a cousin who are all very close to me. I’m so very thankful for my friends who care about me and ask if I’m okay. I’m happy my school is a no-bully zone, and people really accept me. I’m glad I have good grades (though some need improvement). It’s nice to see green grass and trees as I take the lengthy bus ride to and from school. It’s wonderful to have warm food in my stomach with clean water. I have so much to e thankful for that if I continued, it would take eternity.


“Good morning,” I hear suddenly from the intercom at school. I was catching up in my history class, and I was alone. It was just me, my teacher, and two other teachers. “We are sad to announce the loss of a giant of a gentle man.”

“Oh no…” one of the teachers mutters.

The teachers had a meeting a couple minutes ago, and I have seen my English teacher earlier with a red face, probably crying. It strikes me like lightning, instantly and shockingly–I can only think of one person.

“Mr. C. has just passed away last night.”

I can feel the tears in my eyes.

The announcer’s voice breaks, “Now let me read you a text I received from Mr. C. not too long ago: ‘Working at MT was my dream job. I love the children…’ ”

The rest is a blur to me as I remember–just remember everything the other teachers have told me and what the school has been doing for him. We donated money for him. We made cards on his birthday. Teachers always describe him as an awesome guy with a talent for teaching. He was funny and creative…

“In honor of Mr. C., let us observe a moment of silence.”

I hear my teacher sniffle. Mr. C. has many friends here. My English teacher called him her best friend… So many students missed him, and–

I don’ know why I’m crying. I don’t know why I can’t stop. I never knew Mr. C.. He was never my teacher. I never knew him. I never even saw a picture of him. So why am I crying?

It’s because I felt like I knew him with his friends’ words, with his powerpoints that my teacher showed, with the very mention of his name–I felt like I knew him like I’ve had him as a friend for a long time.

Mr. C. had lymphoma.

My dad’s cousin was just diagnosed with lymphoma a couple weeks ago. One of the students from my elementary school had cancer, but he recovered. I’m glad he did. One of my friend’s mom had cancer, and she passed way.

I can’t imagine life without a person I know. Maybe that’s why I’m crying. Because I’m scared that someone close to me will leave me behind, alone.

“And I know Mr. C. is smiling down upon us now,” the announcer ends.

I hope he’s happy.

May you rest in peace, Mr. C..

Happy Late Easter!! :D


I’m not much of an artist or a blogger, but I drew this on Easter and forgot to post this. This drawing is so messed up since the pens kept smearing, and I lost the color pencils I’m used to.

Sorry I’m not posting as much anymore. I’m trying to catch up on school.

A Competition

Never in my life have I ever tried so hard for a competition. All I had was competing in my head–trying to reach goals that seem impossible but reach some of them anyway.

I competed as a video game designer. How cool is that? I competed as an animator and something for spelling too.

When I was in kindergarten, I tried visualizing myself, maybe not as a sophomore in high school but as a middle schooler. I pictured myself with long hair who had lots of friends, talking about clothes and games and just laugh for fun.¬†I thought I would have an easygoing life. Oh how wrong was I…

When I was in sixth grade, my hair was cut short so I wouldn’t have to tie it back in a ponytail like the other girls. I was also very… un-girly. I hated fashion, so that image I had of myself as a well-dressed person was pretty much erased.

In eighth grade, I nearly gave up hope for any competition since I wasn’t valedictorian or salutatorian. And what’s worse? On the day we found out, I realized I helped the salutatorian in math, so I could have been the salutatorian if I hadn’t helped her improve. (Today I realize it’s a good thing I helped her since I actually teach upperclassmen math now¬†and gained some friends).¬† Also, I told my dad, “Dad, not everyone gets to be valedictorian or a salutatorian… I’m not the valedictorian, but I know that I got good grades–”

My dad just started hyperventilating on the phone and said, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh–” He hung up and told everyone I’m the salutatorian. Really?

When I met up with him a couple minutes later with my mom, I got mad when he started congratulating me for my accomplishment. What accomplishment was there?! I realized my dad was very confused when I tried breaking down the news for him. My dad said it was okay, but I knew it wasn’t. My cousins out of the country were both the salutatorians of their class.

People at the office started congratulating me, and when I tried correcting them, my dad just pulled me aside and told me that he told everyone that I was the salutatorian. Seriously? That’s more embarrassing for me than him, and it hurts more since I’m reminded with every passing greeting¬† I didn’t make it.

Competitions were over.

Tenth grade comes along. I’m bored, and I want to change how I am. I don’t want to be some person bored at home since I’m not in any clubs. On that day, my teacher asked me if I wanted to¬†compete for video game design. We, as a class, made one, and trust me, it is a lot of work. I instantly agreed. She also put me in a competition for animation.

Results? First in both video game design and animation at regionals. Eighth in video game design and first at animation for state. (I sadly don’t go to nationals since video game design takes the top three.)

I called my mom when I found out I placed first for animation. “Mom…? Mom? I failed.”

My mom, hard of hearing, didn’t understand a word I said and just passed the phone on to my dad.

“Dad? Dad… I–I failed.”

“Oh… Oh, Rocky, it’s okay to fail. I mean–”

At this, I burst out laughing. “Fail? What do you mean fail? I got first place!”

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.”

The lesson? Set your parents’ expectations low–no, I’m kidding XD. Never give up with something just because you fail once. Fail twice, twenty times, or a hundred times, but never give up because one day, you will win.