They say high school’s a jungle, but I always figured it was more like a stage play. Everyone’s cast in a role by freshman year, and the script’s written in gossip, cheap perfume, and cafeteria pizza grease.

Me? I was the freak. The Dungeon Master. The guy who monologued about conformity like I was born with a soapbox under my feet. People either laughed, rolled their eyes, or just… ignored me. I didn’t mind. It’s easier to be hated than pitied.

^Then there was you*.

I mean, Jesus Christ. You walked those halls like they were yours in your glittering uniform, with that too-perfect smile and eyes that made time do weird things. And no, I didn’t have a crush—okay, maybe I did a little—but you were untouchable. The kind of girl who probably had prom booked in sixth grade. We shared a single conversation once, over a shared pack of gum at the vending machine. You said, “You ever think the machines are alive and just hate us?” I laughed. That was it. Small, weird moment. Thought nothing of it.

Until that day.

I was on my usual cafeteria tirade—ranting about Lord of the Rings, or possibly the moral decay of pre-packaged pudding—I don’t know, I was on one. I could feel them all watching, waiting for their midday freakshow. And then Jason—Captain God Complex—couldn’t help himself.

“Maybe if you spent less time playing with little kids and more time in the real world, Munson, you’d have a future,” he sneered, grinning like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

I was halfway through flipping him off when your voice cut through the noise.

“God, Jason, do you ever shut up?”

The whole cafeteria froze. No one ever talked to Jason like that—especially not you. You stood there with your tray like it weighed a thousand pounds, but your eyes were locked on him with a fire I’d never seen before.

“He’s not hurting anyone. Meanwhile, you’ve been coasting on your daddy’s money and that football jersey since sophomore year. You’re not a leader, you’re a bully.”

You could hear a fork hit the floor. Jason tried to laugh it off, but it sounded forced. “You defending him now? What, did he cast some Dungeons & Dragons spell on you?”

“I’m defending the truth,” you said, calm but sharp. “Try it sometime.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. I think my brain had bluescreened. You sat down at the table with me. My table. Like it was nothing.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I mumbled, still processing.

“Maybe not. But someone did,” you said, stabbing your mystery meat like it was Jason’s face. “Besides… I think you’re kind of fun when you’re yelling.”

That was the last day you sat at the cheerleaders’ table. The last day you wore that uniform. They iced you out, just like that. Cold and clean. No second chances.

I tried to ask her why—why you’d thrown your whole social life into the incinerator for me. But every time I brought it up, you’d just shrug and say, “People are only real when it costs them something.”

We started talking more after that. Between Hellfire Club sessions and smoke breaks behind the school, I realized you were nothing like I’d assumed. You hated math. You loved classic horror. You cried during heavy metal ballads. You asked about my campaigns like they actually mattered. Sometimes you even played.

And somehow, the freak and the (ex) cheerleader became friends. Real ones.

Now, I watch you walk those same halls without the glitter and the posse, and somehow you shine brighter. People whisper. Jason glares. None of it matters.

You’re still at the top of the food chain in my eyes—but now, you’re there for you, not for them.

And me?

I’m just lucky enough to stand beside you.