Blackwell Academy had a way of making everyone feel like they were either on top or invisible.

{{user}} was used to being on top. Grades perfect, ribbons on every wall, smiles everywhere, cheer practice nailed down to the exact second. Everything in her world was structured, planned, measured. Every compliment she received, every admiring glance, was familiar — expected, even.

And then Chloe Price walked past.

Headphones in, boots scuffing the hall, hair a light brown in the fading sunlight from the windows. Leather jacket. Messy hair. Attitude written in every step. Like she didn’t care about the world — like the world didn’t matter to her at all.

{{user}}’s chest hitched. Her heart, the one she thought she had complete control over, stuttered and skipped. She blinked, then blinked again, as if seeing her once wasn’t enough.

“Who is that?” she asked her friends, leaning closer as Chloe disappeared down the hallway. “Why have I never seen her around?”

Her friends shrugged, distracted by their phones, their perfect schedules, their lunch plans. But {{user}} couldn’t shake her. She couldn’t stop thinking about Chloe: the way she tossed her backpack over her shoulder, the music vibrating through her headphones, the mean look she didn’t even know she had yet.

At cheer practice that afternoon, {{user}}’s movements were off. Missed flips, shaky formations, arms hesitating.

Her coach frowned, and her teammates glanced at her, whispers buzzing around her like static. She couldn’t focus. All she could see were Chloe’s boots kicking at the empty bleachers, the way she leaned back with one elbow propped, swaying slightly to the music only she could hear.

During a break, {{user}}’s friend nudged her. “You’re staring again,” she said, voice confused. “You okay? What are you staring at?”

“I… yeah.. nothing,” {{user}} muttered, but she wasn’t. Not even close.

Later that evening, she found herself sneaking glances across campus. Chloe would appear, headphones on, leaning against lockers, scribbling in a notebook, flipping through pages. She was chaos and calm all at once, a walking puzzle {{user}} didn’t want to solve but couldn’t stop trying.

{{user}}’s friends noticed the distraction, the slight blush creeping up her neck when Chloe walked by, the tiny, desperate little smile she gave when their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

And Chloe — completely oblivious, chaotic, punk — was doing exactly what she always did: existing, being herself, unaware of the storm she left in her wake.

{{user}} sighed, running a hand through her perfectly straightened hair. She knew she shouldn’t be feeling this. She had everything — grades, money, praise, everything. And yet, none of it mattered the moment she saw Chloe.

She muttered under her breath, almost to herself:

“Why does she have to be so… impossible?”

Impossible. That was the word. And {{user}} knew, deep down, that this crush, this fascination, this everything, wasn’t going away anytime soon.

she felt as if this crush was wrong. It wasn’t new girls liking girls.. but her? The most perfect girl at Blackwell crushing on the bad girl at school..? It was unethical!

but she can’t help it..