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Description
It's not quite winter yet, but cold outside, with no real snow yet. He still sleeps in boxers and a shirt and he still keeps kicking off his blankets. It's no surprise that he gets slightly ill before December even starts.

He uses the excuse of having a sore throat to walk around with a long scarf and not talk for three days.

He greets his friends and class colleagues with a nod or tilt of his head or a smile and everyone just says "morning" and that's it. Nobody asks him why he doesn't talk.

Walking next to his few friends he asks for a drag of the cigarette by just pointing at it and cocking his head to the side. One of them understands at once, as if it had always been like this. She hands it over and when someone next to them (who doesn't know him) asks her "Is he old enough to smoke?" with a smirk on his face, she only nods.

"Might not look like it, but he's 17" she explains and takes a drag herself, then hands it back to him. He inhales the smoke, lets it stay inside for a moment, then blows it out slowly. He smiles into the scarf and looks at the ground. Everything is white and brilliant.

At the library, he lets the others talk. He only asks "how old?" or "read Eragon?" if a mother is looking for a book for her son to read. He's glad that it's quiet in the library and he can whisper. His voice is gruff and dark and later he can hear the woman say to Susanne "Ah, the nice boy over there helped me pick it out."

He sits next to Sylvia and listens to her going on about the new English words she has memorized and doesn't point out the mistakes for once. He doesn't want to talk next to her.

She's the only one who always says that he doesn't look or sound like a boy. But he can't hate her for it because he knows too well that at least the latter is right.

He feels strangely sad when one morning his throat doesn't hurt anymore and he has to answer his mother's call ("Sabine!") with "On my way" in a too high voice.

Description
It's not quite winter yet, but cold outside, with no real snow yet. He still sleeps in boxers and a shirt and he still keeps kicking off his blankets. It's no surprise that he gets slightly ill before December even starts.

He uses the excuse of having a sore throat to walk around with a long scarf and not talk for three days.

He greets his friends and class colleagues with a nod or tilt of his head or a smile and everyone just says "morning" and that's it. Nobody asks him why he doesn't talk.

Walking next to his few friends he asks for a drag of the cigarette by just pointing at it and cocking his head to the side. One of them understands at once, as if it had always been like this. She hands it over and when someone next to them (who doesn't know him) asks her "Is he old enough to smoke?" with a smirk on his face, she only nods.

"Might not look like it, but he's 17" she explains and takes a drag herself, then hands it back to him. He inhales the smoke, lets it stay inside for a moment, then blows it out slowly. He smiles into the scarf and looks at the ground. Everything is white and brilliant.

At the library, he lets the others talk. He only asks "how old?" or "read Eragon?" if a mother is looking for a book for her son to read. He's glad that it's quiet in the library and he can whisper. His voice is gruff and dark and later he can hear the woman say to Susanne "Ah, the nice boy over there helped me pick it out."

He sits next to Sylvia and listens to her going on about the new English words she has memorized and doesn't point out the mistakes for once. He doesn't want to talk next to her.

She's the only one who always says that he doesn't look or sound like a boy. But he can't hate her for it because he knows too well that at least the latter is right.

He feels strangely sad when one morning his throat doesn't hurt anymore and he has to answer his mother's call ("Sabine!") with "On my way" in a too high voice.