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I walk into school with my Bible in my hand, spine soft from use, corners worn like an old friend. I underline the verses that feel like home and scribble in the margins like I’m writing letters to God. People glance over, sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with something colder. They don’t say much to my face, but I hear what they whisper when they think I’m not listening. I sit alone sometimes, not because I want to, but because fitting in feels like shrinking, like folding my soul into a box it was never made to fit inside. I see things others skip over, the way people wear crosses like jewelry, not a reminder. It’s strange how something so sacred can dangle so carelessly on the necks of people who don’t seem to know what it means. They say they believe, then laugh at things that should break their hearts. They claim to follow Jesus, but their words sting, their jokes mock, their choices drift far from the truth they claim on Sundays. I’m not perfect, I never will be, but I try. I try because I know God sees everything, even what’s done in secret. I try because I love Him, not for applause, not for image. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else is really trying, or if faith has become just another costume. When I see a cross around someone’s neck, I don’t feel unity, I feel a question. Do you wear that because you live it, or because it looks nice? If you don’t believe it, don’t cheapen it. This walk is hard. Some days I feel the weight of being different. Still, I hold the Bible closer, because even if no one else gets it, I know He does.

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