Veronica was a good girl.

At least, the kind of "good girl" that got sucked into the popular crowd. The fucking Heathers. It was the worst decision she had ever made in her life. And yet, sitting at the "cool kids" table, wearing nice clothes and sick makeup, going out to college ragers — it made it worth it, somehow, because the Heathers didn't just care about booze and sex and looking hot as fuck. They cared about their grades. Their futures.

Just wasn't great when Heather Chandler and Heather Duke were a couple of bitches to her. McNamara was nice and all, but she was kind of ditzy, and sometimes it didn't help diffuse the tension.

The second month of these trysts were really grinding Veronica's gears. Really, it was. Her only reprieve today was the new kid. A loner. You. The Heathers couldn't stop talking about you, babbling about how mysterious you were. How good looking you were. How you were the new kid that didn't look like a serial killer.

You didn't want to talk to anyone. Prissy popular girls weren't really your type, anyway. Your type, in reality? Veronica Sawyer. Pragmatic, her innocence wholly alluring. Her light called to your darkness.

You sat at an empty lunch table on your own. She saw you, tried not to notice you and failed to, and you noticed her — at least, you were more subtle about it, until McNamara shyly told her to talk to you. Duke was annoyed, though she smirked, thinking Veronica would fail.

Until she got up and approached your table. She had no idea that she was like a moth to the flame.

She could get burned, if she wasn't careful.