Young Adult Fiction (Humor, Coming-of-Age, Emotional Realism)
Target Audience: Teens, parents, and everyone who’s ever felt “in-between”
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Jayden’s story starts, as many do, with a minor disaster: falling face-first in the school hallway on the first day of junior year, a tray of pudding cups exploding across the linoleum like some kind of cafeteria warzone. It’s a painfully awkward start to a year he’d promised himself would be different. He had a plan—confidence playlist, new shoes, three therapy sessions under his belt—but none of that mattered in the face of public humiliation.
That’s the first lesson of the year: expectations hurt. Jayden expected a glow-up and got a bruised ego.
He’s a 16-year-old kid trying to survive high school, heartbreak, identity crises, and the ache of growing up when everything feels unstable. His voice is funny, honest, and often anxious. He doesn’t pretend to have it together, and that’s what makes him real.
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Life Isn’t a Teen Movie (Unfortunately)
Jayden narrates his life like it’s supposed to be a coming-of-age film, but so far, he’s more background character than protagonist. His best friend, Luca, who was once his person—the one who laughed at his dumb memes, who knew his favorite fruit snacks, who sat with him through the worst family dinner of his life—just stopped texting. Slowly. Then all at once.
Jayden doesn’t know what happened, and it messes with him. He replays the last conversations over and over, wondering what he said or didn’t say. He watches Luca’s stories, sees him with a new crew, and tries not to compare himself. But the truth is, he’s lonely. And confused. And mad at himself for still caring.
Friendship breakups, as Jayden learns, can be more painful than romantic ones—because there’s no closure, no dramatic final scene. Just silence.
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Therapy and Other Soft Places
Jayden’s mom signs him up for therapy after noticing he hasn’t been eating much and cries during toothpaste commercials. He resists at first, but eventually, he meets Dr. Wren—a soft-voiced woman who doesn’t push him to talk, but somehow gets him to anyway.
He tells her about how he overthinks everything, how sometimes he feels like his skin is too thin for this world. How he hates his body one day and forgets it exists the next. How he wants people to like him so badly it physically hurts.
He talks about Riley, the almost-girlfriend who never quite labeled things. They had a situationship—a blurry, playlist-sharing, hand-holding, nothing-but-something kind of thing. Until she drifted, posting photos with someone else. When he asked what they were, she said, “I don’t know.” That crushed him more than an actual breakup would’ve.
Therapy doesn’t fix everything. But it gives Jayden room to exhale. To feel seen.
“Therapy is where I learned that I wasn’t broken. Just overwhelmed.”
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School Is a Stage and I Keep Forgetting My Lines
School is chaos. Teachers expect too much. Classmates ask too little. Jayden feels invisible some days, like a ghost floating between lockers.
Then there’s Mr. Chen, the one teacher who calls out, “You good?” in a way that actually sounds like he means it. And Ms. D, the art teacher who lets him sit in the back and draw when everything else feels too loud. And Daryl, the security guard who fist-bumps him every morning and tells him, “Hang in there, man.”
They don’t solve anything. But they remind him he’s not alone.
He finds a quiet friend in Cam—a kid who always eats alone in the library. They bond over awkward silences, shared introvert energy, and mutual hatred of gym class. They don’t need big conversations. Sometimes just sitting next to someone is enough.
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Being Soft in a World That Wants You Tough
Jayden cries easily. He cares too much. He rewatches Pixar movies and sobs every time.
He used to think this made him weak.
But the more he leans into it—the softness, the empathy, the vulnerability—the more he realizes it’s a kind of strength. The world is ful
Jayden, a 16-year-old with anxiety, a sarcastic inner voice, and no idea what they're doing (but pretending otherwise).
I wanted to start junior year fresh. New notebooks. New hoodie. New "I totally have my life together" attitude.
Instead, I face-planted in front of the vending machine while trying to buy pretzels.
People clapped. I died inside.
That's basically the theme of my life: expectations vs. reality. I expect to be chill and mysterious. Reality: I make weird eye contact with my crush and then walk into a locker.
But this year has to be different. Right?
(Narrator voice: It was not.)
There's a special kind of pain in wiping out in front of your entire school on the first day of junior year. Especially when you're holding a cafeteria tray stacked with pudding cups and crushed hopes.
The second I hit the floor, time slowed. A gasp rippled through the hallway like I had just been nominated for Worst Start to the Year 2025. A single pudding cup rolled dramatically down the hall, as if to say, "Yeah, this year's already off to a trash start."
"Expectations: Me walking into school confident. Reality: Me becoming a human mop for pudding."
The thing is, I really thought this year would be different. I bought new notebooks. I downloaded a habit tracker app. I even convinced myself that I'd say "hi" to people more, maybe even smile at strangers (like a functioning human).
