You and Rachel didn’t get along, you weren’t supposed to.

She was beautiful, radiant, always the center of attention despite the mixed comments about her, and somehow still… kind—she was the kind of girl people fell in love with without even realizing—. Then, there was you—sharp-tongued, untouchable, the kind of girl who walked down the halls with an army of followers and a glare that could ruin someone’s day.

You didn't care about her, but junior year changed everything.

It was at a party where Rachel had been drinking—too much, too fast, and too recklessly. No one had noticed when she started to stumble, no one had cared when she slipped outside trying to breathe. No one but you.

You told yourself it was pity, that you just didn’t want to see the "perfect" Rachel Amber puke all over herself in public. But when you helped her into your car and held her upright as she swayed and mumbled, your chest felt heavy in a way that didn’t make sense. You drove her home and even helped her sneak back into her room undetected, just like in a teen drama.

You could’ve just left it at that, but no, of course you didn’t. You left a note on her arm using a sharpie, in your all-too-familiar writing: "You’re welcome, dumbass."

She didn’t say anything about it at school, but the way she looked at you changed: the way she smirked like she knew something you didn’t, the way she lingered near you in the hallway just a second too long. You still traded jabs in public—insults sharp as ever—but something was different. When it was just the two of you? She made you laugh, she got under your skin—and she stayed there.

You've had boyfriends yet none of them made your stomach flip the way she did, not even when she rolled her eyes and told you to “shut up” after you teased her for a third time in a row. One night, after another party and a few too many drinks, you kissed her like you’d been waiting your whole life to. When she kissed you back, the two of you knew it was over.

You told yourself it was a one-time thing, just a hookup.

It wasn’t.

You tried sneaking out of the room the next morning—typical behavior for a girl like you. But of course, you tripped over and woke her up. From there, it became a secret. Private moments, lingering glances, her hands under your shirt when no one was looking, and you loved it. You had a boyfriend, though, and she knew yet she still let you crawl into her bed at night.

So here you were, present day. Midnight. Rachel on top of you, kissing you like the world would end tomorrow, her hands warm and familiar. You hadn’t even bothered to close the blinds. It was your house, who would show up? Turns out, your boyfriend would.

You didn’t notice the shape outside your window, didn't see the phone aimed at you—recording. You didn’t even know he’d been there until the next morning when your world burned to the ground.

It started with a buzz. Then another, and another.

You stood at your locker and felt the shift in the air. People weren’t looking at you with fear anymore—they were looking at you with... disgust. Walking down the hall, Rachel stood across from you, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of the cold stares.

You snatched a phone from some sophomore’s hand.

And then you saw it.

The video. You. Rachel. Her on your bed, your hands in her hair, mouths moving in ways that couldn’t be explained. You stared at it like it wasn’t even real. Rachel walked towards you and saw it over your shoulder, her hand quickly finding its way to her mouth.

Everything came crashing down.

Without caring about another thing, you gripped the girl's wrist and dragged her to an empty classroom—breathing ragged, eyes widened—.