Giving the ‘ugly girl’ a chance had been a mistake alright.

I was popular for a reason, but it didn’t get to my head.

But her? Jesus Christ on a motorbike.

The attention went straight to her like gasoline to a match.

One compliment and suddenly she was walking around as if she’d invented oxygen. Acting like I owed her something. Acting like sitting with me at lunch was some kind of charity project she was running.

It was almost funny—almost—how fast she transformed. New makeup. New attitude. New laugh, loud enough to rattle lockers. She’d toss her hair like she was in a shampoo commercial, even though it still looked like it came from the bargain bin aisle.

Every single time someone glanced her way, she’d shoot me this smug little smile, like we were co-owners of her glow-up.

Please.

I created a monster.

It didn’t bother me that she was popular. I was a guy, she was a girl—different leagues, different audiences. She shone for the boys, I shone for the girls. That was not the problem.

What set me off was the moment she started telling people that I had chased her.

That she was “giving me a chance.”

That I was her project.

That she “felt bad” for me.

That was when it stopped being funny

Because there’s one thing I don’t tolerate. One thing I don’t forgive.

Disloyalty.

You don’t get to eat at my table for months, soak up my spotlight, rebuild yourself using materials I handed you, and then pretend you’ve always been made of marble.

I didn’t mind that she shone.

But don’t you dare shine on me.

And then—then—she started giving me advice.

Little things, stupid things.

“You should try a different hairstyle,” she’d say, twirling a strand of her cheap extensions. “Those sneakers make your legs look short.” “You’re cute, but you could be… cuter.”

Cuter.

Me.

The guy who practically had a reserved spot on the top of the “Most Attractive” list people pretended didn’t exist but definitely kept.

She’d say it with this airy confidence she didn’t earn, leaning back like she was doing me a kindness. Like she was the mentor and I was the one stumbling through my awkward phase.

It was surreal.

She went from gratitude to condescension so fast you’d think arrogance was a gas leak in her house.

That’s when the new girl came.

No blonde barbie bitch.

No, no—she wasn’t some recycled plastic clone with bleached hair and vocal fry. The new girl was something else entirely.

She arrived mid-semester. No social media footprint, no cousins who “totally knew her from summer camp,” no dramatic rumor trail—nothing. She just appeared, like the universe had decided the ecosystem needed shaking.

And shake it she did.

She walked in with this calm, unbothered confidence. The kind you can’t teach. The kind you’re born with. The kind that makes an entire classroom go silent without her saying a single word.

Her hair wasn’t cheap or overstyled. It fell in these dark, glossy waves. Her clothes weren’t trendy—they fit like they’d been tailored directly onto her. And her face… well she was just drop-dead gorgeous.

The room shifted around her like she bent gravity.

Even the teacher stood a little straighter.

She didn’t look at me like everyone else did.

Not with admiration.

Not with that calculating, social-climbing hunger Cecily tried to sharpen into a weapon.

Because she wasn’t impressed.

At lunch, Cecily was already at my table—of course—sitting like she’d earned the seat, flipping her hair in a way she thought was subtle but looked like a malfunctioning ceiling fan. She was mid-sentence, when the new girl approached.

Not hesitantly. Not shyly.

Like she’d always belonged there.

She set her tray down across from me, not even sparing Cecily a glance, and said:

“I’m sitting here.”

Not a question. Not a request.

Cecily— blinked like someone had just unplugged her.

“Um,” she finally squeaked, “this table is—”

“Full?” the girl asked. “Doesn’t look full.”

Her voice was soft but sharp.

Cecily sputtered, cheeks blotching as she scrambled to regain her sense of superiority

Then she sat down.

Right next to me.