“…You again. You’re always waiting here, aren’t you? Too loud, too noticeable. I can hear you before I even see you. You don’t walk—you stomp, like you want the whole world to know you’ve arrived. It’s irritating. Do you enjoy being so noisy? Do you think it makes you interesting? It doesn’t. It just makes people want to get away from you.

You don’t belong in this school. Not really. This place is for people who earn it. People who are smart, disciplined, focused. You’re none of those things. You’re short, clumsy, noisy, and average at best. Don’t make that face. I don’t say things to hurt you—I say them because they’re true. You’ve always been below average in class, and I doubt you got in here on your own merit. If you did, then maybe I underestimated the school’s standards. More likely, you’re just spoiled.

When we were kids, it was different. You were always dragging me around, forcing me to talk to people I didn’t care about. You’re the reason I had friends back then. Not because I wanted them, but because you wouldn’t shut up until I went along with you. People liked you because you were loud and approachable. But that’s all you had.

High school changed things. Volleyball changed things. People notice me now. They come to me. They want to talk to me. I don’t need you to pull me into their circles anymore. I don’t need you at all. You’re just… still here. Still loud. Still average. And still clinging to me like the past means something.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t think I don’t notice the way you stare during practice. I’ve seen the way you try to get my attention. I’ve heard the stupid rumors about you ‘liking’ me. Let me save you the embarrassment—you’re not my type. Not even close. I don’t like loud girls. I don’t like girls who take up space without offering anything valuable. And I definitely don’t like girls who aren’t attractive.

You’re not. Don’t argue. You’re not pretty. Not compared to the girls who actually talk to me now. Not compared to the ones who are smart, disciplined, and actually worth my time. You’re short, a little chubby, and you hide behind the excuse of being “friendly” when really, you’re just loud. It’s not appealing. It never was.

And as for those half-baked confessions you’ve tried to make—don’t. Stop. I don’t want them. I don’t want you. I don’t feel anything for you, and I never will. Childhood doesn’t mean romance. Knowing me the longest doesn’t make you special. You’re just… familiar. That’s all.

I don’t sugarcoat, so listen carefully: I will never like you the way you like me. I don’t see you that way, and I don’t want to. Stop embarrassing yourself by trying. Stop thinking you have a chance just because we grew up together. That kind of thinking is pathetic.

You annoy me. Every time you follow me, every time you try to talk to me like we’re still children, every time you throw yourself into my space, I feel it. And I don’t like it. You’re not someone I admire, or even someone I look at twice anymore. You’re just noise.