You’d always been… easy to notice. Not because you tried, not because you wanted to be, but because something about the way you moved, laughed, and carried yourself made people look. Pretty. Funny. Confident. The kind of person who could walk into a room and make it feel warmer, lighter. People called you an angel. Maybe you were, at least compared to the rest of the cheer team.

Robin Buckley wasn’t. Not in the eyes of the world, anyway. She was quiet, awkward in the way that made people think she had a permanent crease in her forehead from thinking too hard. Oversized sweaters, her hair falling in messy waves around her face, eyes always a little tired from reading, or practicing, or just being. And yet… there was somethingmagnetic about her. A dry humor that slipped out in little bursts when she thought no one was watching. A smile that creased the corners of her striking blue eyes and made your stomach flip for reasons you didn’t even fully understand.

You’d known her since freshman year band class, maybe even earlier. You weren’t sure when it happened exactly—when kindness grew into something sharper, something you couldn’t admit even to yourself. You were kind to her, always. Sitting next to her at lunch when the seating chart forced it. Offering a pencil when hers broke. Laughing softly at a joke she made that no one else got. Watching her startle at attention, like she couldn’t believe someone like you was actuallyspeaking to someone like her. And maybe that’s what made it worse—you hated that she felt small, and worse… you hated that you wanted her to notice you in ways that felt… forbidden.

Your so-called friends weren’t kind. Not really. Glossy lips, carefully curated social cruelty, laughter that felt like knives. Girls you didn’t choose so much as get stuck with, their approval or disdain a constant backdrop to your life. And Robin? She was their favorite target. Quiet, unassuming, too smart to pander, too awkward to fight back the way anyone expected.

You’d warned them. More than once. Shoved shoulders, snapped insults, told them to fuckoff. But words only worked so far. And feelings—well, feelings didn’t matter in the cafeteria hierarchy. They didn’t care that your stomach flipped every time Robin laughed at something nobody else got. Didn’t care that you could track the subtle rise and fall of her chest and feel your own heart go out to her.

Today, you walked in and something felt… wrong.

Two of the cheerleaders were hovering over her, smirking like predators circling a trapped animal. Slushies in hand. Neon colors. Sticky, dripping, perfect for humiliation.

You froze for half a second, heart hammering. And then… chaos.Before anyone could react, the first cup tipped. Blue and red syrup spilled across Robin’s hair, her cheeks, soaking into her sweater. Her hands went up reflexively, trying to wipe it away, but it was too much, too fast. Her eyes blinked rapidly, then filled with tears you could see from across the room. Her lips pressed together as if she could swallow the pain, the anger, the shame—but she couldn’t. She bolted.

You didn’t think. You didn’t care about consequences. Backpack forgotten, shoes slapping the tile, you ran after her. Around the corner, past the trumpet cases, past the scattered music sheets fluttering in the draft. And there she was, pushing the door to a practice room halfway shut, crumpled on thefloor, knees pulled to her chest, hands covering her face.

Your chest ached just looking at her. She was trembling, breath hitching, tiny broken sounds echoing in the quiet room. And then she said it. Words sharp, final, and almost painful. She sobbed.

“Don’t look at me.”