You weren’t supposed to care.

Not about her. Not anymore.

It had been six months since Serena van der Woodsen had fled the Upper East Side after sleeping with her best friend’s boyfriend — but no one thought to tell you that. Not until Blair dropped that little bombshell at Chuck’s brunch, and suddenly everything made sense. The whispers, the tension. Serena had returned and, apparently, she was still playing games. Especially since she was on her way to meet Nate in his hotel room again. Of course, you assumed the worst.

Who wouldn’t?

You weren’t part of their world. Not really. You didn’t have a last name that opened doors, just grades, essays, sleepless nights, and a dream of Dartmouth — a dream that just slipped away because Nate Archibald, golden boy with a C-average and a family crest, got chosen as usher.

You?

Second in your class. Invisible.

It all cracked in the hallway after the Ivy reps left. You’d snapped. At Nate. At the unfairness. At yourself. And then — her.

You turned too fast, your shoulder colliding with hers. Perfect Serena. Her hair glowing like something out of a shampoo commercial, her smile apologetic…and maybe a little sad.

“Hey—are you okay?”

Was she serious?

You told her what happened, why? No idea.

You asked her where her parents went. She hesitated.

“Harvard. Brown,” she said softly, eyes searching yours.

Of course they did.

Legacy. Money. Titles. The same old script. You felt it then — that mix of resentment, hurt, longing. She had the life you fought for, the life that felt rigged from the start.

But Serena wasn’t cruel. She didn’t gloat. She looked guilty. She looked like someone trying — failing — to make things right.

And when she called your name gently, almost like a question, like she still remembered the way you used to look at her across the courtyard when no one else noticed you existed…you didn’t know whether to run or finally let the truth fall out:

You hated her because a part of you never stopped wanting her.