The laughter wasn’t the sound that stayed with me.
What stayed with me was the silence. The silence after Dr. Morrison, our principal, stood up on that stage with a microphone and called my name.
Laughter, you can live with. Laughter lets you pretend people are just being stupid. Just being teenagers. Just being loud.
Silence is different.
Silence makes you wonder if they mean it.
Two hours earlier, I was standing in front of the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, staring at a dark green dress.
I’d bought it with three months of tips from the coffee shop where I work after school, and one very questionable online coupon code that Jada found on a Reddit thread at one in the morning.
It was simple. Floor length. Soft at the waist, with thin straps and a little shimmer in the fabric that only showed up when the light hit it right.
And it was beautiful. Beautiful enough that I couldn’t pretend I was wearing it as a joke.
That was the problem. If it had been ugly, I could have said it was a bit. A dare. Something funny for Instagram.
But it wasn’t ugly. And it wasn’t a bit.
My best friend, Jada, was sitting cross-legged on my bed behind me. She had a paper container of McDonald’s fries balanced on one knee and a compact mirror in her other hand. She was doing her eyeliner. Like I wasn’t five minutes away from tearing the dress off and changing into the backup suit hanging on my closet door.
The suit was navy. My mom bought it for my cousin’s wedding last year. It was still in the dry cleaner’s plastic.
“Well?” I said.
Jada tilted her head and looked at me in the mirror.
“Damien,” she said. “You look expensive.”
“That’s not an answer. Not for this.”
“Fine.” She set the fries down on my comforter. “You look more like yourself than you have in a really long time.”
I looked back at the mirror.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.