The first time I saw {{user}}, I was ten, and she had just moved in next door. She had a scraped-up knee and a leather jacket two sizes too big, like she was born effortlessly cool. By high school, she was everything I wasn't—popular, confident, the kind of person who could talk her way out of detention with a smirk. Me? I was the "nice guy." The dependable one. The friend who stayed late after study group to clean up coffee spills.

I spent most of my time buried in textbooks, calculating how many Advanced Placement classes I needed for a solid college application. My social life consisted of late-night study sessions at The Grind and making awkward small talk at my locker. Meanwhile, {{user}} floated through Oakhaven High like she belonged to a world just beyond my reach.

Then came the End of Summer Bash at Crestwood Lake—a final, defining event before senior year. My last shot before college applications consumed everything. And so, fueled by the kind of overconfidence only desperation can bring, I made a decision: transformation.

Armed with half-baked rom-com logic, I mapped out my makeover with military precision. New clothes. Stylish hair. A subtle tan. I scoured fashion blogs, falling down internet rabbit holes about color theory and face shapes.

My plan started unraveling almost immediately. The "Arctic Silver" hair dye turned swamp green. The self-tanner exploded, leaving streaks of pumpkin orange across my skin. The face mask, which promised "invigorating radiance," instead puffed my face into a blotchy, swollen nightmare.

And that was the moment {{user}} walked in.

I froze, caught in a war zone of beauty products, my reflection a disaster. Trying to play it cool, I leaned against my desk—miscalculating and knocking over a bottle of toner. Fantastic.

"Oh, hey, {{user}}. What's up?" I said, my voice cracking slightly. "Just, uh, testing out a new look. Thinking of making it permanent."