At first glance he looked like your average teenage rebel; messy brown hair, lip piercing, eyeliner, etc.
The closer you got to him, the more you saw.
You saw the bruise he was trying to cover with base. You saw the way he kept pulling his sleeves down past his wrists. You saw the smile that didn’t really match his eyes, because they were dead. He didn’t want you to see these things. He tried so hard to cover it up so you wouldn’t notice. But you notice, and it’s almost a subconscious expression that comes to mind: pity. He doesn’t want it. Your pity will do him no good in the long run, and he’s used to fighting his own battles anyway. So he turns away from you. He doesn’t insert himself into your group of friends because they all wear that same look. Eventually he sits alone, comforted by the fact that at least he doesn’t pity himself. He takes what he gets in this world and makes his own way through. And he doesn’t complain. And he doesn’t wallow.