From a writing prompt to write a character sketch.

Hi.

Apparently, I’m supposed to pause the story for a moment and introduce myself. Bit inconvenient, really. We’ve only just survived that coach journey and now we’re taking a break for introductions like it’s the first day of school. Trust me, I’m just as eager as you are to find out what happens next. But apparently “character development” is important, so here we are.

I’m Tom.

My dad used to call me a beautiful boy. He still does but now it sounds more like habit than evidence. When I was little, I had blond curls and the sort of face old ladies in supermarkets feel compelled to comment on. Dad would come home from work, scoop me up off the carpet, carry me to the mirror and say, “Who’s that?”

And naturally I’d reply, “A beautiful boy.”

Which, in hindsight, was a dangerous amount of confidence to give a toddler.

It stuck for years.

The first time I wandered into school, which wasn’t technically my first day because I snuck in while my mum was talking outside, a teacher asked me who I was.

So obviously I looked them dead in the eye and said, “I’m a beautiful boy.”

Apparently, that got a laugh. I say “apparently” because I don’t remember it. Trauma tends to blur the details.

The blond hair’s gone now. Replaced by dark brown curls. Lots of them. Too many, arguably. Imagine someone lost a fight with a hedge and the hedge won. That’s my head.

I’d love straight hair. Just once. Hair that behaves. Hair that doesn’t wake up every morning and choose violence.

Instead, I’ve got this nest.

And I mean nest in the broadest possible sense. If someone told me there was wildlife living in it, I wouldn’t immediately dismiss it. I’ve found pens in there. Pencil shavings. A paperclip once. Pretty sure I lost a sock in it last winter. If a cat wandered out of it looking annoyed, I’d just apologise for disturbing it.

I’m not exactly what you’d call fearless either.

I’m more… alarmingly alert.

I don’t like surprises. Or crowds. Or situations where someone says, “Don’t panic,” because that usually means panic immediately.

Large groups of people make my hands clammy. My breathing speeds up. My heart starts pounding like it’s trying to tunnel out through my ribs and make a run for it without me.

Small groups are fine though. Good job too, because I’ve only got a handful of friends. Literally a handful. You could host my birthday party in one of those old red phone boxes and still have room for a cake.

I’m tall, which helps. Tall enough to see over crowds. Tall enough to reach the top shelf. Tall enough for every adult within a five-mile radius to say, “Since you’re up there…” Which is how I’ve ended up changing lightbulbs, fetching cereal boxes, and dusting cobwebs off ceilings despite not volunteering for any of it.

Cobwebs.

Which means spiders. Which means no. Absolutely not. I hate spiders. I know “hate” is a strong word, but if one appears unexpectedly in my bedroom, I become capable of sprinting faster than the laws of physics should allow.

Mai thinks this is hilarious.

Apparently, it’s “not very manly” to be scared of spiders.

Neither is shrieking and running out of a room while pointing behind you like there’s been an attempted murder. And yet. Nobody’s perfect. Least of all me.

Although autobiographies always try to pretend otherwise, don’t they? Everyone’s always accidentally brilliant. Accidentally attractive. Accidentally discovering themselves while climbing mountains or drinking coffee in Paris.

If celebrities wrote honestly, it’d be more like:

“I spent most of 2019 pretending I understood emails and eating toast over the sink.”

Much more relatable.

Anyway. I’m decent at school. Pretty good at most subjects. My English teacher says I should improve my grammar and spelling, which feels harsh considering I’m literally standing here introducing myself in full sentences.

My handwriting’s dreadful. Not quirky dreadful either. Not “doctors would admire this” dreadful. More “archaeologists might need to decode this in a thousand years” dreadful.

Luckily computers exist. I’m the unofficial family tech support department. Which mostly involves being summoned from my room to fix problems that mysteriously vanish the second I arrive.

“It was definitely broken a minute ago.”

Of course it was.

So yes. I’m fifteen. Tall. Hair like an abandoned bird sanctuary. I love rock music, thanks to my dad, and refuse to believe modern pop deserves this much airtime. I’m not massively confident. Unless it involves beating the final boss in a game, in which case I become unbearably smug for several hours.

I panic under pressure. Usually pressure I created myself. I overthink everything. Then overthink the overthinking. Then lie awake replaying something I said three years ago to someone who almost certainly doesn’t remember me.

But I’ve got good friends. Real ones. And imaginary ones. Nope. Not unpacking that right now.

And I suppose that’s me.

Tom.

Tall, anxious, curly-haired, spider-averse, moderately competent with computers, deeply suspicious of PE, and permanently one awkward conversation away from spontaneous combustion.

Not exactly hero material.

But then again…

I guess we’ll find out.