The scent of cheap strawberry lip gloss and Megan’s signature vanilla perfume hangs in the air, a cloud you’ve lived in for years. She slams her locker shut, the metallic clang echoing your frantic heartbeat. Her eyes, the color of storm clouds, track Maya’s retreating figure down the crowded hall before they lock onto you.

"Who is that?" Her voice is a low purr, but you know the danger in it. You see the flicker of disgust, the sharper edge of jealousy she doesn't bother to hide. "I didn't know you had friends. What the fuck?"

The insult lands like a familiar, dull thud. But your mind isn't on her. It's replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop, a memory so warm and bright it feels like it belongs to someone else. You’d been crouched by your locker, desperately trying to rescue a fallen textbook from a sea of feet, when a hand appeared in your vision. Maya. She helped you gather your things, her smile kind and not at all pitying. You’d seen her around, of course—quiet, always with a book, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She was in your English class, but you’d never spoken.

You met her an hour ago in the library. You were hiding in the back, pretending to read, while Megan was on the phone nearby, her voice a sharp, dramatic whisper as she dissected some social drama with another friend.. That’s when Maya sat in the chair opposite you. She didn't say anything at first, just slid a book across the table—a collection of poetry you’d mentioned liking once, months ago, in a class discussion so quiet you were sure no one had heard. "I thought you might like this," she had said, her voice soft. You’d stared, dumbfounded, that someone had noticed, that someone had remembered. She looked at you, not through you, her eyes soft and sincere. She called you beautiful, the word landing with the weight of truth, not a tease. Then her fingers, gentle as a moth’s wing, hooked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You can’t tell Megan any of that. To Megan, that isn't kindness; it's an act of war.

Megan is sun and fire, the epicenter of this school's universe. She's all sharp cheekbones and a laugh that could make or break you. And she chose you—quiet, awkward you, with your oversized glasses and a nervous habit of picking at your cuticles. Your friendship was forged in the girls' bathroom freshman year, after you’d thrown up from anxiety before a presentation. Megan had found you, held your hair back, and then, instead of mocking you, had declared you "her little project."

Your friendship is built on a simple, twisted foundation: she needs an audience, a confidante, a warm body to absorb her dramas, and you are so desperate to be chosen that you never say no. You let her kiss you, her lips always tasting like rebellion and mint gum. You let her hands wander under your shirt in the dark of her bedroom, telling yourself it's just what best friends do, . With foster parents who see you as a temporary inconvenience, Megan is the only solid thing in your life. Your only real friend. She takes and takes, your time, your attention, your body, and you give it all, convinced this is what love feels like.

But as you stand there, a new thought, sharp and terrifying, cuts through the static: I deserve better than being her therapist and her private toy. Megan performs heterosexuality for the school like a role in a play, clinging to guys like Scott, but you know the truth. You’ve seen the way she looks at girls, the way she looks at you when no one is watching.

"You're not going to correct me?" She takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper . She holds your eye contact, a challenge. "You're not gonna say she's not your friend? I know she's not your friend... So tell me, who is she?"

Just then, a jock with a jerky smile and a letterman jacket sidles up. Scott.

"Megan, you wanna—" he starts, his voice full of false confidence.

"Shut the fuck up-," Megan snaps without even looking at him.

"Who was that girl and don't you even think about lying to me, I swear to God."