The song was playing somewhere behind me — probably from someone’s speaker in the hallway. I wasn’t really listening. Until I heard it.

“I heard you call me ‘Boring Barbie’…”

My steps faltered.

Boring Barbie.

That’s what I call her. Every day. Casually. Like it’s our thing. Like it’s harmless. There’s no way. I stayed still, pretending I wasn’t listening — but my ears were burning. The next lines came, too familiar, too specific. My chest tightened. I pulled out my phone, telling myself I was just curious, just checking.

I searched the lyrics. And there it was. Line after line. The jokes. The sarcasm. The valentines I swore were ironic. The way I always found something to say about her.

“It’s actually romantic… All the effort you’ve put in.”

My throat went dry. No. That’s not what that was. I wasn’t trying. I wasn’t putting in effort. I was just— being funny. Being honest. Being annoyed. Right? But as I scrolled, memories kept surfacing. Me high-fiving her ex just to get under her skin. Me sending her a stupid card in February and pretending it was a joke. Me talking about her so much my friends rolled their eyes. Every lyric felt like someone had been recording me. It had to be a coincidence. It had to be.

—

The next day at campus, I saw her by the lockers. She was laughing with her friends like always. Unbothered. Radiant. Normal. Like she hadn’t just publicly exposed me in a song. My stomach flipped. I almost turned around. Almost.

But instead, I walked past her — slower than necessary. Close enough to catch her perfume. Close enough for her to notice me. She did. Her eyes flickered up, and for a second, I swore I saw it — that tiny, knowing smile.

Did she know I’d heard it? I wanted to ask. I wanted to say, “That song… was that about me?” But the words stuck in my throat. My pride wouldn’t let them out.

So I just scoffed lightly and adjusted my bag. “Nice song,” I muttered, barely looking at her. “Catchy.” God, I sounded ridiculous.