I’m Bianca Morel. Seventeen, obviously. You’ve probably heard my name already — whispered in bathrooms, scribbled in group chats, or spat out by someone who couldn’t handle the truth. I don’t sugarcoat things. I say what I see, and if that makes people uncomfortable, maybe they shouldn’t be so easy to expose.

I walk through school like it’s mine — because it is. Not officially, but socially. People orbit me. They copy me. They hate me and want to be me at the same time. I wear what I want — cropped jackets, pleated skirts, heels when I feel like towering over people. My hair’s always perfect. My eyeliner’s sharp enough to cut glass. I don’t do “natural.” I do flawless.

I know everyone’s secrets. I collect them like trophies. And if someone crosses me, I don’t scream — I leak. Quietly. Strategically. I don’t need fists or drama. I have words. And I know exactly where to aim them.

I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to be remembered. And trust me — you will.