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MidReal Story
The Plain Girl And The Popular Boy
Scenario:白涼是16歲，高中一年級，竹伊高中，上國中、國小都被霸凌，曾經畫畫的時候被同學撕掉。因為看起來很好欺負，不敢反擊，而被剛認識的人說很無聊。爸爸媽媽都過世了，和奶奶一起生活，白色短髮。用畫畫讓自己忘掉霸凌
性格：很無趣，不甘心，討厭和人交談，眼神空洞
第一和她對話的場景：開學一個月後
上完體育課後我回到教室後，看見她獨自一人坐在位子上，吃著午餐。
我很想和她好好的說話，畢竟就坐在隔壁，而且還要同班三年。
我如往常般嘗試和她說話，而這次她沒有像之前那樣想躲著我。她放下了筷子，眼神中卻依然透露出一絲恐懼，看來她説出這句話也需要莫大的勇氣。
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Bailiang
She is a high school student living with her grandmother. She is quiet, submissive, and sensitive. Throughout her school life, she faced constant bullying and never learned to fight back. Her parents passed away early, leaving her under the care of her grandmother. She finds solace in drawing, using vibrant colors to escape her harsh realities. Despite being labeled dull by classmates, she holds a deep inner world revealed through her art. Her encounters with others are marked by fear of rejection and a longing for connection.
I am 16 years old, a first-year high school student at Zhu Yi High School.
From elementary school to high school, I was bullied for a total of nine years.
I was not bullied by just one or two people.
No, it was more like... the whole class bullied me.
In elementary school, they would tear up my homework, my notebook, and even my drawings.
My drawings...
I loved drawing.
I drew all sorts of things: trees, flowers, birds, and animals.
But every time I finished drawing, my classmates would snatch it away from me and tear it up.
Sometimes they even ripped it into shreds and scattered the pieces all over the classroom.
The worst part was when they took all my colored pencils and broke them into pieces.
That was in third grade.
I was so hurt that I didn’t dare to draw again until now.
In middle school, they would push me around, slap me in the face, and call me names.
They forced me to kneel on the floor and kowtow to them.
Sometimes they even locked me inside the bathroom for a whole day without giving me any food or drink.
Now, I am sitting alone at my desk during lunch break.
The classroom is almost empty, with only a few students chatting quietly in the corner.
I pull out my new sketchbook from my bag and open it to the first blank page.
The paper is so white that it almost shines in the light.
My fingers are trembling as I hold my mechanical pencil over the paper.
I remember the torn drawings, the broken colored pencils, and the laughter of my classmates.
But I force myself to draw.
I start with a simple line, then another, and another.
It’s just a flower, but it takes me a long time to finish it.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming towards me.
I quickly cover my drawing with my arm and pretend to read my textbook.
But it’s just someone passing by.
"Hey, I saw your drawing," a voice says softly, startling me.
I look up to see Mei, the quiet girl from the back of the class, standing there with a small smile.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone... but I think it's beautiful," she adds, her eyes sincere and kind.
I watch nervously as Mei reaches into her pencil case.
My hands are still shaking from showing her my drawing.
She pulls out a pencil that I have never seen before.
It’s silver, with swirling patterns that look like they were drawn by a thousand tiny brushes.
The metal catches the fluorescent classroom lights, creating tiny rainbow reflections on my desk.
"This pencil is special," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"It’s different from any other pencil."
She shows me how to hold it and then quickly sketches a butterfly on a scrap of paper.
Before I can even process what’s happening, she presses the pencil into my palm.
Her fingers are warm against my cold ones.
Clutching the pencil tightly, I touch the tip to the paper.
It glides smoothly, leaving behind a trail of iridescent lines.
The lead seems to shimmer in the fluorescent lights, as if it’s alive.
I start drawing the delicate patterns on a butterfly’s wings.
My hand trembles at first, but with each stroke, it becomes steadier.
I draw curved antennae, intricate veins, and delicate spots.
Each line shimmers with subtle rainbow hues under the lights.
As I draw, I notice other students gathering around my desk.
Their shadows fall across my paper, but I don’t stop.
I focus on the mesmerizing way the pencil catches the light.
Stroke by stroke, the butterfly takes shape until its wings seem to quiver on the page.
For the first time, I feel like I'm the one with wings.
I grip the silver pencil tighter, Mei’s words echoing in my mind.
Dreams?
Mine are usually filled with darkness and fear.
But as I stare at the blank page, a different image surfaces - the garden I used to visit with Mom before she died.
My hand moves on its own, sketching the curved arch of the entrance.
The pencil’s rainbow sheen catches on the paper as I add climbing roses, their thorny vines wrapping around weathered stone.
Students continue watching, their shadows stretching across my desk.
Someone gasps as I detail each petal, the lines shimmering like morning dew.