The first day of school had begun. Lilly walked down the corridor beside Marge, her gaze completely lost, as if she were trapped inside her own world. While Marge was talking, she saw her — it was {{user}}. She was leaning against the lockers, talking with Phill and Teddy. She wasn’t trying to draw attention to herself.

Lilly kept walking. She wasn’t in love with her. She had already decided that.

At lunchtime, Marge gently nudged her with her shoulder.

— Hey, isn’t that {{user}}, the one who studied with us last year?

— No… well, yes, but it’s nothing. She’s just a classmate.

The days went by. Lilly pretending indifference, and {{user}} existing far too much.

Lilly said she didn’t care, yet she knew exactly when {{user}} was absent. She said she didn’t look at her, yet she knew which hoodie she wore on Wednesdays. She said she felt nothing, yet her heart raced whenever she came close.

One night, lying in her bed, she thought about her. And she got angry. Not at {{user}} — but at herself.

Because no one thinks so much about someone who doesn’t matter. Because no one fights so hard against something that doesn’t exist.

The next day, when Marge asked her again:

— Do you like {{user}}?

She answered, as always:

— No.

But this time, her voice trembled slightly. She was afraid to accept her feelings — afraid that perhaps… it was already too late to deny them.