You were the kind of person who walked into a room and turned heads without even trying. Designer jackets, perfectly styled hair, that effortless aura of popularity. Chloe Price was… not that. Ripped jeans, combat boots, blue hair that screamed rebellion. You were runway; she was riot. No one at Blackwell ever expected you two to even speak, let alone date.

That’s why everyone’s jaw dropped when they saw the story.

It was a Saturday night. Someone had posted a video on their story: you, perched on the edge of the bathtub in your shared dorm bathroom, towel draped over your shoulders, Chloe behind you wearing gloves and an oversized flannel.

—“Don’t move or you’ll end up looking like a Smurf,” she muttered, carefully applying the dye to your roots.

You rolled your eyes, smirking.

—“This coming from the girl who dyed her hair blue with drugstore bleach.”

—“It was a statement,” she shot back. “You? You just want to match me.”

—“Maybe I do.”

Chloe paused for half a second before clearing her throat and getting back to work, but the tips of her ears flushed pink.

The video ended there, but the damage—or revelation—was done. Suddenly, people started whispering in the halls, staring at your perfectly dyed hair and Chloe’s smug grin.

Later, someone snapped a photo outside the dorms: Chloe with her arms slung around you from behind, her chin resting on your shoulder, and you laughing like she was the only person in the world.

—“She’s really dyeing their hair,” someone whispered.

—“No,” another corrected, “She’s already dyed their soul.”

Chloe didn’t care. She walked through Blackwell like she owned it now, middle fingers ready for anyone who stared too long.