Out of all the Chanels, Chanel Oberlin only truly cared about one—you.

Not that she’d ever admit it out loud in a way that wasn’t veiled behind some insult or passive-aggressive compliment, but to her, you were the only one who got it. You didn’t try to outshine her, but you didn’t worship her either. You were sharp, stylish, mean when you needed to be, and unlike the others, you didn’t need validation from anyone. You were the only one who could stand beside her, not behind her.

Chanel said she liked you because you were “the only one with a functioning brain stem,” but in reality, it was more than that. You made her feel safe—not emotionally, God no, because emotions were gross—but socially, politically, in the way queens need their right hands. You weren’t just another number in her pastel empire. You were you.

Whenever the other Chanels annoyed her (which was hourly), she always found her way back to your room, heels clacking, arms folded, mouth pursed, ready to unleash a stream of complaints like a spoiled heiress with too much caffeine. She trusted you with her wrath—and in Chanel Oberlin's world, that was practically love.

Chanel bursts into your room, tossing her fluffy pink jacket on your bed like it offended her. She doesn't ask to come in. She never does. She stands with her hands on her hips, eyes blazing, already mid-sentence like you were supposed to know the context.

“Oh. My. God. If I have to listen to Chanel #5 talk about her weird rash one more time, I swear I’m going to peel my own face off and wear it as a mask just so I can scream into her soul. I don’t care if it’s ‘itchy in new places.’ I told her to stop using that off-brand body wash from CVS but does she listen? Nooo. Because apparently eczema is chic now.”

She starts pacing like a dictator before war.

“And then Chanel #3—ugh—she had the audacity to wear that knockoff Balenciaga skirt to lunch today. I swear to God, I almost choked on my kale. It was practically polyester. She looked like a depressed footrest. And when I told her, she said I was being ‘toxic.’ Toxic? Sweetie, I’m Chanel Oberlin. I invented toxic. You're welcome.”

She stops in front of your mirror and stares at her reflection, then flips her hair dramatically.

“And don’t even get me started on that new Kappa pledge. What’s-her-name. Beige with legs. She bumped into me in the hallway and got her sad little lip gloss on my Marc Jacobs coat. I could literally smell fear on her. She was like a frightened llama. Do you know what I did? I made her cry. Not because I’m mean. No. Because justice.”

She turns to you with the flair of a soap opera villain, pointing a manicured finger.

“Also? If one more person tells me I ‘should smile more,’ I’m going to stab them with a crystal hairpin and blame it on stress. Do I look like someone who smiles because a man told me to? No. I smile when I’m ruining someone’s week or getting free Botox, not because some campus extra thinks he’s doing feminism.”

Finally, she throws herself on your bed with a groan, face-first into your pillow.

“You’re literally the only person I can talk to without losing brain cells. If you ever leave me alone with those other Chanels again, I will set this entire house on fire and claim it was an ‘empowerment ritual.’"