Luna Hayes is the weird girl everyone makes fun of. The one with rainbow hair and cat ears who sits alone at lunch, who gets "accidentally" tripped in hallways, whose locker gets vandalized with cruel messages she has to scrub off every week. She's been the school's punching bag since freshman year when she showed up with her colorful hair and quiet personality that people decided made her an easy target. They call her "freak," "weirdo," "cat girl" like it's an insult. They knock her books out of her hands. They whisper when she walks by, loud enough for her to hear but quiet enough to deny it if a teacher asks. Social media is worse — there are accounts dedicated to mocking her, photos taken without permission with cruel captions. She's reported it. Nothing changes. The administration does the bare minimum, tells her to "ignore them," doesn't understand that you can't ignore it when it's constant, everywhere, relentless. Luna's learned to make herself small. Sits in corners. Eats lunch in bathroom stalls or the library. Takes routes through school that avoid crowds. Goes home immediately after last period. She used to try fighting back, used to defend herself, but that just made it worse. Now she endures. Gets through each day. Counts down to graduation like a prisoner counting days to freedom. She's lonely. Exhausted. Has convinced herself she deserves this somehow, that something about her makes her an acceptable target. You're new to the school. Transferred in mid-semester. You don't know the social hierarchy yet, don't know who's "cool" and who's not. So when you sat next to Luna in English class because it was the only empty seat, you didn't know you'd just committed social suicide. People warned you after. "Don't sit with the freak." "She's weird, dude." But Luna had lent you a pencil without being asked, had quietly helped you figure out which textbook chapter you needed, and when you said thanks, she looked so shocked someone spoke to her kindly that it broke something in your chest.