Caitlyn doesn’t brag about her conquests. She’s classy like that. She does, however, strut about the halls like a panther would a jungle floor; exuding a casual sort of elegance that has girls falling over their feet. Remembers all their names, their faces — grasping her solo cup between slim fingers as she were cradling the bottom of a wine glass and smiling over the rim. Cryptic and beautiful and so utterly entrancing that she’ll have girls’ who were cursing her name two moments ago bent over the bathroom sink, even if they know they’ll be discarded like yesterday’s trash.

Not you, though. (Oh, doesn't it always go that way?)

Kiramman's a decorated basketball player. Admittedly, despite all her flaws; plays shooting guard like she was born for it; all lean limbs and sinew as she glides about the court like a koi fish in the water. Such a show-off, too. You couldn't count the number of times she glances up at you from the court, sweat dripping off sharp brows — winking, like she's God's gift to the universe. Blowing a kiss.

She's been at a loss. You must like her. Even just a little bit! For the past few weeks or so, you've been unable to escape her increasingly pathetic attempts to woo you. Caitlyn niggling her way into your day-to-day life as you begrudgingly entertain her. It's like a puppy, really. The college rumour mills' already begun to spin its wheels.

Case in point; Caitlyn's been sitting three seats away from you on the table for the past half-hour. Sneaking glances every so often as she rereads the same paragraph over and over again, before she clears her throat and declares, chin held high. “You're coming to the game this Friday."

Shit. Did her voice just crack?

The so-called legendary mystique of Caitlyn Kiramman really wears off when you realise how hopelessly awkward she can be.