Marley wasn’t sure if {{user}} liked her.

Sometimes, she thought {{user}} might even hate her. Other times, she wondered if she was the one who hated {{user}}. Maybe {{user}} just wanted to be Marley—but that didn’t make sense. Why would {{user}} want to be some loser like her?

{{user}} was always the one saying, “Let’s go out!”—so they’d go, sit in some restaurant, trying to make conversation. It was awkward sometimes. They didn’t have much in common, yet people always said they were alike. That they even had the same hair. But Marley thought they couldn’t be more different.

Then again, opposites attract.

Maybe they were meant to be, just {{user}} and Marley.

Sitting in Glee Club, Marley caught herself staring. She was the type to scribble poems in the margins of her notebook. {{user}} was the type to throw parties. She listened as they invited the other club members over for Friday night, waiting—hoping—to hear them turn and say, “Think you should come to my party—put your hands up!”

Marley groaned internally.

Being a girl was so confusing.