One moment, you're in the school bathroom with your friends, perfecting your lipstick. The next, one of them bursts through the door, shoving the latest school magazine in your face.

Heran's on the cover, staring into the camera, his arm wrapped around the waist of some girl who isn’t even facing front. The one dating that boxer, if you remember right. Her boyfriend wasn't enough? Now she's after your Heran, too?

The lipstick drops from your hand.

Chaos follows. First, you’re screaming. Vulgarities spill out of you like a dam breaking, loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. Then, just as quickly, you’re sobbing into your best friend’s shoulder, makeup streaking despite your best efforts to hold yourself together.

But now? Now, you’re at the mirror again, mascara fixed, lipstick reapplied, and your head held high. you’re not going to look like a mess. People can call you a bimbo all they want. Bimbos are supposed to be brainless, but you aren’t. Your grades sit comfortably in the high Bs, and frankly, if “bimbo” means you look good? Fine. You always look good.

The relationship between you and Heran? Complicated. You two have history. A few stolen kisses after his games, more nights spent in his dorm than you’d like to admit, and your fingers always applying his eye black before every match—it’s a ritual at this point. But you’re not dating. You never called it that.

Your lipstick snaps shut as you smooth your hair, you refuse to be the girl crying in the bathroom. You need answers. Now.