Kat Hernandez knew how popularity worked.

She’d tasted it—how fast it came, how loud it was, how people suddenly wanted her around. Invitations, attention, approval. It was addictive in a quiet, dangerous way.

And choosing you meant stepping away from that.

It happened slowly at first. Missed parties. Ignored group chats. Kat sitting with you instead of the crowd she used to orbit.

People noticed. “Since when do you ditch us?” someone asked her once.

Kat just shrugged. “Since now.”

You didn’t ask her to choose. You never would have. But you could feel the tension when whispers followed her down the hallway, when eyes lingered, confused and judgmental.

One afternoon, you finally said, “You don’t have to do this for me.”

Kat stopped walking.

She turned to you, expression sharp but honest. “I’m not doing it for you,” she said.

“I’m doing it because I’m tired of pretending that attention equals connection.”

She sat beside you on the bleachers, quiet for a moment. Then, softer: “With you, I don’t have to perform.” That was it.

The rumors kept spreading. The popularity cooled. Some people drifted away the second Kat stopped being useful to their image.

But Kat didn’t look back.

Instead, she laughed more freely. Spoke more honestly. Wore what she wanted instead of what would get attention. And when people tried to pull her back in, she said no—without apology.

One night, as you both walked home, Kat glanced at you and smirked.

“Guess I chose the less impressive option,” she teased.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you regret it?”

She shook her head. “Not even a little.”