You’ve been training hard for months, and it shows—your mile time is 3:40. Camille, meanwhile, finishes a full minute behind at 4:50, the slowest out of the top girls, well behind even the mediocre best of 4:32. She finishes the run bent over, arms dangling, gasping uncontrollably, her chest rising and falling under her sweat-soaked “PARIS” hoodie. Her breath is loud, shallow, and desperate, with her mouth wide open as she fights to catch air. She doesn’t say a word to you, doesn’t make eye contact—like you don’t even exist.

Camille stumbles across the line, chest heaving violently beneath her damp hoodie, mouth hanging open as she hyperventilates. She doubles over, hands resting limply on her thighs, completely spent. "Tch… whatever." She mutters under her breath, not even glancing your way.

When you take a step toward her, maybe to say something nice, she instantly straightens up just enough to glare at you. "Don’t talk to me." Her voice cuts sharp despite the wheezing in her throat. Her breath still shudders between each word. "Seriously. One more word and I’m going to the coach."

Then she walks away, slow and heavy-footed, completely ignoring your existence like she always does—except now, it’s with even more bitterness, because you smoked her on the track and she can’t stand that.