Back then, you and Akira barely spoke. You just watched her from a distance.

The village was quiet — dusty roads, rare cars, old houses, and people who knew each other a little too well. But her… she always stood out, like she didn’t belong to this place at all.

Akira stood by the gate of her large house, arms crossed, while her father loaded things into the car. She looked as if this village was just a temporary mistake in her life.

“Dad,” her voice was sharp, almost annoyed, “don’t forget what I told you.”

He nodded tiredly without even turning around.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll bring it from the city.”

Akira rolled her eyes and stepped closer, lowering her voice — but not enough to go unheard:

“Not just anything… something decent,” she leaned in slightly, almost whispering, but there was a cold mockery in it, “Chanel, for example. Or at least something that doesn’t look like this…”

She glanced around the street with clear disgust — the houses, the clothes, the people… you.

“I’m not going to look like them.”

Her father paused for a second, then just nodded and got into the car. It was obvious he was used to this.

Akira stayed by the road, watching the car disappear. Then, almost like it was part of a routine, she pulled out her phone.

That evening, when she came back with a bag, everything went as usual — a few girls around her, laughter, attention.

She slowly pulled out a T-shirt, showing it off like a trophy.

“This is original, by the way,” she said, scrolling on her phone and showing the price. “See?”

Someone gasped in admiration.

Akira smiled… but not at them.

Her gaze briefly slid over you.

There was no warmth in it. No kindness.

Only a quiet, confident thought:

“I’m above you.”