I drum my fingers on the table, then stop. “It’s not a prank anymore. He’s actually obsessed.”
Hunter leans in, eyes sparkling. “That’s the beauty of it. The guy who made fun of Natalie for, like, a semester straight is now writing poetry about you. In drag. It’s poetic justice.”
I hesitate, trying to formulate the words. “Maybe, but—”
He cuts me off. “No maybes. You’re a legend, Montgomery. There’s even a meme account now. You’ve gotta roll with it.”
I try again. “It’s not fun for me, Hunter. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus, and everyone keeps tagging me in this shit like I’m in on the joke.”
He scoffs, waving it away. “You just need to lighten up. No one’s going to find out it was you. Your secret’s safe unless you blow your own cover.”
I bite my lip, the inside already raw. “I don’t know, man. What if someone figures it out? What if—”
He laughs, interrupting. “What if what? Aaron gets his heart broken? He’ll live. Or maybe he’ll finally stop being an asshole.”
A student with purple hair and three nose rings glances over, smirks, and returns to her laptop. The espresso machine hisses behind the counter, drowning out my next words.
I try one more time. “It’s more complicated than that, Hunter.”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Is it? Or do you just not like the attention?”
I go red, which I instantly regret. “That’s not it.”
He gives me a look—half smug, half genuine curiosity. “Then what is it, Spence? You caught a crush on Thompson or something?”
I laugh, but it sounds weird and brittle. “No, I just… don’t want to be the punchline. Not this time.”
Hunter’s face softens for a split second. “You’re not the punchline, dude. You’re the main character.”
The words land weirdly, like a compliment dipped in acid. “Not helping,” I mutter.
He shrugs, then crams half a scone into his mouth. “Just ride it out. Or own it. Honestly, you should be proud. Half the campus now thinks Jessica Rabbit is the second coming.”
A girl in an oversized Wilcox University sweatshirt shuffles past, casting a sidelong glance at our table. I keep my eyes down, fidgeting with the torn edge of a sugar packet.
Hunter polishes off his drink and stands, stretching like he’s about to run a marathon. “I gotta get to Marketing. You’ll be fine. Just don’t post anything dumb and you’re golden.” He slaps my shoulder, a little too hard, and heads for the door, leaving a trail of crumpled napkins in his wake.
I sit for a minute, watching the foam collapse in Hunter’s abandoned cup. The espresso machine hisses again, louder this time, as if mocking me for even thinking I could get ahead of this.
I don’t feel like the main character. I feel like the control group in an experiment gone wrong.
I check my phone: three new notifications, two from Hunter already (“lol just saw the post where Aaron is the dog chasing your wig”) and one from Sara (“Hang in there. You got this”).
I delete the memes but keep Sara’s message. It’s the only thing that feels real.
I toss the sugar packet into the trash and head for class, hoping that somewhere between now and the end of the semester, I’ll figure out how to get out of my own story.
—ΠΩ—
The quad is a wind tunnel. Every time I cross it, the breeze funnels through the science building’s brick canyons, sandblasting my face and making me squint like an idiot. A cluster of girls in neon workout gear powerwalks in front of me, chattering about their Math 202 exam, and every third word is “curve” or “Ely” or “brutal.” I hang back, letting them set the pace, headphones in but nothing playing—just a decoy, camouflage.
I’m two steps from the side entrance to Porter Hall when I hear Aaron’s voice in the stairwell. It’s not the same tone he uses in class, not the confidence-engineered-for-public-consumption. This is low, frustrated, and weirdly exposed.
I freeze, almost slipping on a patch of wet leaves. I press myself into the alcove by the door, pretending to check my phone, trying to slow the rush of blood to my head.
“…I know it sounds crazy,” Aaron says, “but it’s like—fuck, I don’t even know her name. I don’t know anything about her, except…” He trails off, then laughs, the sound brittle. “Except that it felt different. Like, actually different. And now I just look like a complete psycho to everyone.”
One of his friends, probably Malik, mutters something. I can’t make it out over the sound of the HVAC unit rattling above, but it’s meant to be comforting. Aaron doesn’t sound comforted.
