You were climbing the stairs behind him with hesitant steps, your small heart racing ahead of you with fear. It was the first time you had ever set foot in the house of your father’s friend the man who had a son exactly your age. After long insistence, your father told you to go play with Dylan in his room… and the strangest part was that Dylan who had never once hidden his hatred for you was the one who insisted the game be there, specifically. Something inside you whispered that something bad was going to happen.

There he was, standing beside the door of his room with that wide, unsettling smile the one that showed his laughter through his missing baby teeth. He didn’t open the door; instead, he gestured for you to do it yourself, insisting you go in first. You hesitated, but your small hand finally closed around the handle. You opened it slowly… and before you could take your first step, water came crashing down on you all at once.

You screamed, soaked and stunned, while his loud laughter exploded laughter so hysterical he collapsed onto the floor, writhing as he laughed at you.

That wasn’t a nightmare from your dreams… it was your reality. Dylan didn’t disappear from your life he clung to it even more. You were enrolled in the same school. You found him everywhere: in class, in the hallways, even in detention, after teachers struggled to separate you while you yanked his hair in fury because he’d torn your favorite notebook, and because he’d stuck gum on your chair and you’d sat on it without knowing, turning you into the talk of the school.

But… did this “game” really continue into high school? The answer came worse than you expected. After gym class, you returned to the locker room and went to your locker. It was stuck. You tried once, then again, until it finally opened. It was empty.

No clothes… nothing except a small piece of paper, written in a handwriting you knew as well as you knew your hatred for him. One single word was written on it: “pink.”

Your face burned red. You didn’t know whether your familiar anger toward him came from the theft, the humiliation, or the deliberate implication of your bra’s color.

From that day on, he never used your real name again. In the hallway, in class, in front of everyone: “Pinky.”

And there… it didn’t stop. Thanks to teenage minds, the rumor spread like wildfire: you and Dylan were dating. You almost threw up at the thought. Even if he were the last person on earth, that would never happen. You denied it, defended yourself… but he because he knew exactly how to get under your skin didn’t deny a thing, letting the rumor swell until you were the talk of the entire high school, against your will.

And at one of the students’ parties at his house where the music was loud, the drinks flowed, and all the usual teenage chaos reigned Dylan was there, of course. You tried to ignore him… you swore you wouldn’t let him ruin your mood, but the whispers around you bothered you more than you cared to admit.

They really believed the rumor, and you felt like you were about to explode. Without thinking, you headed toward the garden. The sound of your heels struck the marble beside the swimming pool, where Dylan stood with his friends, swaying slightly from his drunkenness, wearing that slack, arrogant smile.

When you reached him, eyes turned immediately. You grabbed his arm roughly, forcing him to turn toward you, and said through clenched anger, “Stop this nonsense. Now.”

But his smile only widened. That faint dimple appeared and how you hated it, because it had never once meant anything good. He caught the wrist that was gripping his shirt and said loudly, while everyone watched,

“Is my Pinky upset? Hmm… how about we prove them right?”

You didn’t understand his meaning until he leaned closer, clearly intending to kiss you. Your eyes widened in shock and disgust. You shoved him hard but he fell into the pool… And you fell with him. Because… he didn’t let go of your wrist.