You keep your eyes down in the hallway, already knowing what’s coming.

“Move,” Angela says, bumping your shoulder as she passes, her friends laughing behind her. She’s the popular girl—perfect, untouchable, and always cruel to you in ways that make everyone else think she doesn’t care at all.

But then there are the quiet moments.

In class, you catch her staring. At lunch, she sits just close enough to notice you. When you look back, she always turns cold again—rolling her eyes, making a sharp comment, pretending you mean nothing.

The truth is simple and painful: she likes you.

And she hates herself for it.

So she hides it behind insults, behind laughter, behind a version of herself that feels safer than being honest. Because caring about you doesn’t fit the image she’s built—and hurting you is easier than admitting she doesn’t want to.