What Is The Story Behind The Middle Lyrics?

I was nineteen the first time Cole Whitfield broke me. Not with cruelty. With a single word. Why. Not did you — why. Like the answer was already settled and he just wanted the story to make sense. I told him the truth anyway. He said nothing that mattered. So I picked up my bag, walked out of his apartment, and decided that a man who trusted a rumor over two years of me wasn’t worth a correction. I spent the next two years becoming someone I actually liked. New city. Graduate program. A published paper with my name on it. I was done with Cole Whitfield in every way a person can be done. Then I walked into Seminar Room 114 and he was sitting right there, gray eyes already on the door, like some part of him knew. I sat down. I opened my notebook. I did not look up. Here’s the thing about studying how people form beliefs: you understand exactly why he believed it. That doesn’t mean you forgive it. That doesn’t mean two years of silence disappear because he’s learned how to look at you like he’s sorry. He wants a conversation. I want my degree. But the campus is small, the seminar table is round, and the boy who broke my heart at nineteen is doing everything right at twenty-one — and I’m starting to understand that composed isn’t the same thing as healed. I hate that I still know the exact sound of his voice.

A month before the SATs, I, Jenny Reid, could see my score. Literally. It was just floating right above my head. But there was a catch. Every time I cracked open a prep book, my score would drop by ten points. But if I skipped a day of school? It jumped right back up by ten. So, I played the system. For a whole month, I barely lifted a finger. And on the day of the test, the number glowing over my head was a solid 1560. When the scores finally dropped online… I'd scored a 500. And the 1560? That was my little sister Patricia's score. My parents lost it. As punishment, they got me a grueling night-shift job at a local electronics factory. That first night, a bunch of guys I'd never seen before cornered me in the parking lot and beat me half to death. Fading in and out of consciousness, I heard my sister's voice right by my ear. "You just had to one-up me, didn't you? Thought you were so smart… but you never figured out I was the one controlling that number over your head." The truth hit me like a physical blow. The score had been her trick all along. I opened my eyes—and I was back. One month before the SATs. The number above my head read exactly 1300. "Hey," my sister said, all fake sweetness. "Want to study together tonight? We can go over the practice tests." I looked at the stack of papers in my own hands. Without a word, I pulled out my lighter and set them on fire right there in the driveway. "Exams are coming," I said, watching the flames. "I'm not studying." My score ticked up to 1310. My sister's face was this perfect mask of disappointment, but the second I turned away, I caught the sly smile she couldn't quite hide. She had no idea… the real performance, the one I'd been rehearsing just for her, was finally about to begin.

Being a mute used to be simple before all the craziness started. I just can't talk and that's who I am. Mum has learned to accept that and I guess so have I. Everything was just fine in my high school in Shanghai. I had finally made it to year twelve and even though I was in China, I was actually being treated as a human being despite my disability. Things were definitely not perfect but I would give anything to go back to that, like it was before. I heard my first voice that year, right at the beginning of year 12. I didn’t really have any real friends, but I was used to it and before the voices started, I was fine with that. But it all changed when I first heard them. The voices inside their heads started then and my life was never the same. They weren't just thinking about school or they girls or guys they were into, no they were thinking about doing things, doing horrible things to each other and I was the only one that knew how messed up they really were.

Her deep big dark brown eyes were still the same, but only deeper in the glow of the evening sunglight. When they met mine, it was like they saw right through me, knew my darkest deepest thoughts, my vulnerability, my fears and my desires. It felt like she knew what I don't.... And it really freaked me out.She was fair skinned, had this beauty mark beside her left eye, and it was cute, plus her small straight nose. Her pale brown thin lips were always like they were in a pout.She wasn't my type, that was for sure. So why was I completely irresistibly fascinated by her like I was spell bind?"How old are you? My voice came out a little too rough for my own liking, because all I could think of was nibbling on those pale brown thin lips of hers, run my tongue over them, and lastly, kiss them."Seventeen." She replied after releasing a deep breath which I suspected she'd held captive earlier on. Her tiny hands pulled the hoodie away from her hair and I came face to face with her cornrows.This girl!Fuuuuuuck! She was beautiful, she was possibly the most beautiful thing I had come across today. I don't know, maybe she looked that beautiful to me because she brought me to this enchanted place."I bet you know me as Octavia cause I know you as Eliakim." She raised her eyes up to mine again. "It's a strange name, never heard of it, but it's nice." I was starting to like it when she stared at me, even longed for her eyes to meet mine."So is yours."***This story is about a bipolar guy, and an insecure girl.

Layla Reyes wasn’t looking to be noticed. New to Maple Hill High, she only wanted to keep her head down, finish senior year, and forget the mess she left behind in Chicago. But then she meets Jayden Carter—a quiet artist with soulful eyes and a sketchpad full of secrets. What starts as a simple school project soon becomes something deeper, richer, and more complicated than either of them expected. Just as they begin to open up, Layla’s past crashes into her present, threatening to undo everything she and Jayden were building. Can two people still healing learn to trust each other with more than just paint and poetry? Or will they stay stuck in the space between what almost was… and what could be?

The 100th time Dexter Carrington ditches me to help my best friend with her lab work, I write the final line in my diary and break up with him. Dexter is exasperated, to say the least. "I genuinely don't know how your amygdala is wired. Your emotions have completely bulldozed your rational thinking." My best friend, Brianna Holt, laughs. "That's cruel. You're insulting her intelligence in words she can't even understand." She's right. I don't understand. The two of them dominate the biology department rankings every year, taking first and second place, and are the kind of prodigies even their professors defer to. I'm just an ordinary student at the music school next door. When they talk about how cells have their own rhythms, the only thing I can think to ask is what time signature those rhythms are in. Dexter always hates that. "If you don't understand, don't chime in." So now I listen. I don't chime in anymore. Because the first page of this diary reads, "Today is my birthday, but Dexter chose to go over data with Brianna. "By the time this diary is full, I'm leaving him for good."