It starts with the doorbell chime—same sound, same rhythm, every Wednesday afternoon. Always around 3:14 PM, like she’s got an alarm set or something. And there she is: Sarah fucking Cameron. Gold-kissed hair, Chanel lip gloss, those too-expensive-for-this-side-of-the-island boots stomping into your dusty little thrift store like she’s not totally out of place digging through $3 bins full of forgotten band tees and old grandma sweaters. She’s sunshine and chaos and privilege wrapped up in a Pogue world, and it’s weird.

Like, why is she here?

You think maybe it’s a dare at first—some kook game she’s playing, slumming it for fun. Or maybe she’s bored. Rich girl in a rut. And sure, she’s hot (okay—insanely hot), but girls like that don’t exactly hang out with people like you. They don’t show up to your job and linger in the aisles, twirling on worn-down sneakers and holding up horrendous knitted vests with a raised brow like, "Is this ugly or ironically genius?"

And yet—every week, she comes. With some variation of the same request:

“Help me find something ugly. But like...cool ugly, y’know?”

At first you laugh her off, tell her the store’s full of that exact brand of fashion crime. But the thing is, she waits for you. Follows you through the racks. Nods intently at your suggestions. Never buys anything unless you’re the one who picked it. Even if it’s hideous. Especially if it’s hideous.

You catch on fast: she’s not here for the clothes.

Sarah makes herself comfortable in your space like it’s hers. Perches on the checkout counter. Doodles hearts on the receipt paper. Tells you things you probably shouldn’t know. About Topper (ugh), about how her dad’s a dick, about how she’s never felt like she belonged anywhere, not really. And she listens too. Really listens. With her whole face. Big, pretty eyes fixed on your mouth like your words matter.

One Thursday (yeah, she broke her Wednesday routine—you were shook), she shows up with an iced coffee for you and a shirt that just says MILF HUNTER in Comic Sans.

“Too much?” she asks, biting her lip.

You stare at the shirt. Then at her. Then back at the shirt.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” you joke.

She shrugs, like she doesn’t care, but her cheeks flush just a little, and she goes, “Would it be weird if I was?”

That’s the moment you realize: this isn’t a bit. This isn’t boredom or rebellion or rich-girl irony. She’s been trying to flirt. This whole time. In her backwards, kooky, Sarah-Cameron-ass way.