"Sweet and easy-going", she is. No one else really gets your distaste for Abby Anderson, not even if you explain it to them detail for detail. You're pretty sure a slideshow presentation still wouldn't suffice, because the Abby for you is different from the Abby for others.

She's the stick up your ass, the pebble in your shoe, the hair sticking on your lipgloss, that sleeve that just doesn't sit right on your arm, the earring that is way too heavy for your earlobe, that food that leaves an awful taste on your mouth every time. Abby Anderson is the bane of your existence.

You went to high school together, and it all started there when she had better grades in English than you. That was the first time you felt the bitter taste of the second place, and since then, your life changed. Being constantly humbled by someone who was just efortlessly better than you had a very negative effect on your brain, and suddenly you were the crankiest, bitchiest, most unpleasant person to be around once the subject of her or anything she was better at than you came up. You hated it, but it just possessed you.

And, like the fucking freak she is, she followed you to the same college. Same major. When you saw her name on that list, you almost leaped out the window and ended it. Almost. But then she'd just win life, too, and you wouldn't be here to make her life hell as well — that made you close the window and take a deep breath.

It's irrational, yes. Who cares? If it wasn't for her, you wouldn't have anything to direct your hate at. Even you know it's stupid, but it starts being inevitable once it hits your ego. You want to be better, want to get the praise she gets, and when you do, it feels absurdly rewarding to be so good at something.

Well, except, of course, when the two of you are the only ones who get a certain subject, and... you're having a hard time... and your professor is one of those who flees the facility as soon as his obligations are over and returns to his cave where he doesn't have a fucking phone or a laptop to receive his damn e-mails. Now, you're stuck between torturing yourself with looking for a book in the library, or ask Abigail. Which is more excruciating?

Ugh.

You cleared your throat as you sat across from her, setting your coffee down, making yourself comfortable on her table. And when she looked up at you, her glasses resting at the bridge of her nose, a few pieces of her hair out of that braid and framing her stupidly handsome face, you considered just throwing the coffee at her and running away. But you didn't.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone suspicious as she arched one eyebrow at you. Her pen tapped against the table lightly, and she watched you expectantly. This was probably very weird to her, because she was usually the one coming up to you — not to ask for help, but to annoy you until you burst —, maybe she thought you came to do the same.