In Spanish, my names means kindness. In Hebrew, mercy. My names means social, pretty, brave. Gianna is an intelligent girl with so many friends she can't stop talking even in her sleep. My name is not.  My name is orange, expected to look good, but it disappoints everyone at the end. My name is that lonely animal left behind, barely getting through the arms of the windiest storm, but people barely give my name a glance. My name is the number eight, not a ugly seven, but not a sandout nine. My name feels like that kid at the back of every play, at the corner of every swing. My name is that feeling when a conversation gets awkward. My name, it’s a tree falling down. It’s the kid that can’t get any pairs because, no one has my name. I suppose I should feel special.

But, my name is not one for the crowd. It is not like the other ones, Arabella, Malia, Maeve, that get gasps and praises instead of frowns. They, they say my name different everywhere, some as if they are tasting a acid lemon, some as if they were chewing gum, others sound foreign as they say it, adding the weirdest accent they can think so.

Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, I wonder how my name was pronounced when no one knew me.

They make up random nicknames too. To some I’m Gini, that friend who is kind but hates everyone, to some I’m G, that friend that's there, to others I’m Gia, the over enthusiastic one, the shy one, the one who will disappear for day, but don't worry she’ll come back.

Gianna, Gianna is the diamond, my name is just the rust that’s lying by its side.