Another Sunday, another drama.

My brother — the famous school heartthrob — decided he was in love. Again. And, as always, wanted the whole family to meet the “love of his life.” I could already hear the background music of yet another disaster.

I sat on the couch, wearing my pink furry jacket, matching socks, and sipping glittery tea (yes, edible glitter — because I’m that girl). I had my judging eyes ready — the special kind I reserve for the hopeless girls he brings home like trophies.

I was expecting the usual: some pretty-but-bland girl, the type that says “like” every two seconds and thinks being cute is a personality trait.

But then... she walked in.

And everything froze.

She had a calm smile, soft steps, and a way of existing that felt like silence in a loud room. Shiny hair, kind eyes. Simple clothes, but elegant. And that sweet, almost magical energy.

She said, “Hi, you must be Lola! What a beautiful room,” looking at my pink walls and plushies like she actually meant it.

And I… said nothing. Me. Lola — queen of drama, pink lover, judgment expert — speechless.

She sat down at the table with her hands in her lap, so polite, so… gentle. She laughed at my dad’s awful jokes, complimented my mom’s cooking, and when she smiled at me — really smiled — I forgot she was supposed to be here for him.

And that’s when it hit me.

She was way too perfect for my brother. And worse… Way too perfect not to be mine.

I knew it was wrong. That she probably didn’t even look at girls like me. But when she said goodbye with a soft “It was lovely meeting you, Lola… I hope I see you again,” and her fingers brushed mine — warm and gentle...

I had only one thought:

If she comes back here, it won’t be for him. It’ll be for me.