You were never one of the pretty girls. Not the mysterious, quiet types that boys wrote poetry about, or the effortlessly charismatic ones who lit up every room. You weren’t the girl people admired from afar or chased after in secret.

You were just… there.

Extroverted, sure, but never anyone’s first choice. You weren’t unliked, just unnecessary. Friends kept you around, but you weren’t their real friend—you were the comedic relief, the discardable extra, the one who made them feel better about themselves.

You talked too much, knew too many random facts, overshared without meaning to. You had no impressive talents, no musical skills, no athletic ability. Just hyperfixations, gaming, and a million things you found interesting but no one else cared about. You were loud but forgettable, always present but never essential.

And then came the worst part of your week: a partnered project.

Standing in front of the classroom, your teacher held a clipboard, calling out names in pairs. Everyone whispered and exchanged hopeful glances, already knowing who they wanted. But when your name was called, it was followed by one you never expected.

Xavier Aldridge.

The perfect one. The arrogant one. The popular one who never had to try at anything.

He didn’t even glance at you at first, as if your existence was just another fact to file away—unimportant, irrelevant. Then, with an unreadable expression, he turned toward you, sizing you up like an inconvenience.

This was going to be a nightmare.