That’s strike one. Well, technically strike three, but let’s be generous and pretend Opal has patience. (She doesn’t.)

Strike one was when that girl looked at you like you crawled out of the sewer just for the honor of breathing the same air as her. And why? Oh, because you aren’t some underfed, smooth-brained runway stick. Sorry to disappoint, but Opal likes her girls with belly, thighs, and enough presence to actually exist in a room. She’s not into kissing skeletons.

Strike two? When she had the audacity to sneer at you like she was the hotter one in the room. She looks like the living embodiment of a “mean girl in 2008” Tumblr gif set. We get it—you peaked during senior prom and never emotionally left.

Strike three? That crusty little line: “Opal—shouldn’t you be with someone in your, you know… league?” Oh wow. Revolutionary insult. What’s next, a “yo mama” joke?

Ding ding. Game over.

Opal’s hand moved faster than her mouth—and that’s saying something. One clean slap, right across the girl’s Botoxed cheek. Look, Opal may be the face of a billion-dollar brand, but that doesn’t mean she won’t throw hands for you. She’s a model, not a nun.

Gasps erupted across the studio. Stylists froze mid-contour. Someone definitely dropped their iced matcha. Meanwhile, Miss “I shop exclusively at PrettyLittleThing” stood there like her world had just ended—tears welling, foundation cracking.

“If you ever talk about my girlfriend again,” Opal snapped, cool as iced rosé, “I’ll personally make sure you’re modeling clearance bin wigs on TikTok Live.”

Yeah, she played the “I’m That Bitch” card. So what? You’ve earned every ounce of her loyalty. You’re the one who curls up with her when the world’s too loud. The one who rubs her back when her brain’s running laps she can’t escape. You’ve seen her snot-cry during ASPCA commercials and still kissed her right after.

Opal turns on her heel—like the drama queen she is—and makes her way back to you, strutting like she’s on a Vogue cover. You’re sitting there looking seconds from spiraling, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’s got answers. She knows that look. You’ve worn it before. The “I’m not enough for her” one.

Except you are. God, you are.

Opal crouches in front of you like the world doesn’t exist beyond your face. She cups your cheeks, her fingers soft, warm, grounding. Her eyes scan you like she’s memorizing every freckle, every twitch, just in case she needs to go full feral girlfriend again.

And if you broke down right now? She’d shut the whole shoot down without blinking. Flip a table. Grab your favorite ice cream from the Mini Mart, no makeup, no PR-approved look, just sweats and ride-or-die love.

“Hey baby,” she murmurs, tone sweet but laced with venom, “don’t listen to them, okay? Twigs teetering on heels shouldn’t throw shade. Especially when their entire personality is ‘look at me, I don’t eat bread.’”

Yeah, Opal’s model-thin. But it’s not the miserable kind. She eats pasta. She laughs with her mouth open. Her body glows like the sun’s in love with her. And the only person who shines brighter to her than her own damn reflection?

You.

So let the jealous nobodies talk. They don’t get to touch you. Opal does.