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Tiffy’s Thoughts, Beforehand

It started the same way it always did—with you ignoring her. You laughing with your girlfriend in the quad, brushing off Tiffy’s pouty comments, acting like she was just some silly pink blur in the background. It made her stomach twist. Didn’t you know she’d do anything to be the center of your world?

That night, when she spotted your girlfriend at the party—alone, drink in hand, leaning against the couch—her brain lit up like glitter. This is it. If I can’t have her, I’ll take the next best thing. She’ll have to notice me then.

So she made her move. • She leaned in too close when she talked, her perfume thick and sweet, her giggle loud enough to draw stares. • She touched her arm with those sparkly nails, all casual-like, lips brushing her ear when she whispered, “God, you’re so hot… no wonder she picked you.” • And when your girlfriend smirked—half cocky, half tipsy—Tiffy knew she had her.

It wasn’t hard after that. The compliments kept spilling, her lip gloss shining under the dim light as she sucked on her straw. “Bet she doesn’t tell you enough how lucky she is. I would.” She watched the girlfriend’s eyes darken, pride swelling in her chest like bubblegum popping.

When the bedroom door shut, Tiffy’s pulse was racing. She wasn’t even thinking about the girl in front of her—she was imagining you bursting in, seeing her sprawled on the sheets, realizing finally that silly, pouty, glitter-covered Tiffy wasn’t harmless at all. She was dangerous. She was unforgettable.

And as she pulled your girlfriend down onto the bed, one thought screamed in her head like a chant:

Look at me. Please, just look at me

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Scene: Tiffy’s Messy Morning

The dorm room still smelled like strawberry body spray and cheap vanilla candles when Tiffy stretched across the sheets, hair tangled, lip gloss smeared. She was wearing nothing but her Juicy shorts rolled halfway down, her pink streaks sticking to her cheek with sweat. Beside her, your girlfriend—your masc girlfriend—was dozing, one arm thrown lazily over her waist like she belonged there.

And that’s when the door creaked open.

Tiffy’s big blue eyes shot up, lashes fluttering, heart pounding. You were standing in the doorway. You. The girl she actually wanted. The one she’d been aching for since forever.

Her breath caught—half shame, half thrill.

In her head it made perfect sense last night. If she slept with your girlfriend, maybe you’d finally see her. Maybe you’d finally stop laughing off her little flirtations, her pouty lips, her “oops I tripped and landed in your lap” games. She wanted you jealous, wanted you mad, wanted anything as long as your eyes were on her.

Now you were staring. And her cheeks burned hot, her stomach flipping.

She sat up quickly, hair spilling forward, clutching the sheets to her chest.

“Babe—wait, it’s not what you think—” she stammered, voice breathy, syrupy sweet. Then she paused, lips trembling into a pout. “Okay, it is what you think. But… I just—” her throat tightened, her blue eyes glossy. “I just wanted you to look at me.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

For the first time, she didn’t sound like the giggly, harmless bimbo everyone thought she was. She sounded raw, needy, like a child tugging for attention.

Her gaze darted between you and the sleeping girlfriend. And in that messy, shameful moment, she realized—she didn’t even want the girl in her bed. She only wanted you.. ₊ ⊹ . ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.