There are a few details underneath in smaller font– open bar, instructions to dress in red–then a picture of my face, photoshopped onto a little cartoon body with hearts floating around my head.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like it leaves my body entirely, flipping once, twice, before clawing its way back up my throat.
No.
No, no, no…
The air leaves my lungs in a cold rush as I stare at the image, reading it again. And again. And again.
Like if I look at it enough times, it’ll change. Rearrange itself into something less humiliating.
It doesn’t.
The edges of my vision start to blur, the world softening into something distant and unreal, like I’m watching this happen from somewhere outside of my own body. Then I drag my gaze up from the screen, and Chelsea is still there, still watching me, delight etched into every line of her stupidly perfect face.
“I mean,” Chelsea muses, her voice carrying easily across the quad, “I guess that explains the infatuation.” She leans in, close enough that I can smell the cloying scent of her perfume, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. Her smile doesn’t soften up close. It fractures, sharp at the edges, like glass under pressure. “But to actually advertise it?” she scoffs, her gaze flicking down, then back up. “God, Ava. I didn’t think you could get any more pathetic.”
A few people laugh, louder this time.
I can’t speak.
My fingers curl tighter around my phone, the edges biting into my palm hard enough that it should hurt, should anchor me somehow, but it doesn’t. Nothing does. My eyes drag across the crowd instead, catching on faces I half-recognize– strangers, classmates, everyone watching.
Waiting.
For me to cry, to break, to give them something worth remembering. Because right now, I’m not a person. I’m a spectacle; the star of my own public execution.
Chelsea’s voice pierces through the haze.
“If I were you,” she says lightly, like she’s offering helpful advice, “I’d make the most of the little time you’ve got left.” Her blue eyes pin me in place, bright and merciless. “Because the second they get what they want, they’ll just toss you out like the trash you are.” She shrugs, gaze flicking down to my chest, then back up to my face. “But I guess that’s all you were ever good for anyway.”
Her words slice clean through my brain, but they don’t land the way she wants them to. They don’t hollow me out or make me fold in on myself.
They catch.
They spark.
And then they burn.
I straighten slowly, shoulders pulling back, spine locking in place as something dark and ugly inside me pushes up through the panic. My vision blurs, but not from fear– from the sheer force of the rage clawing its way up my throat.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, holding her gaze even as everything inside me threatens to boil over.
Chelsea tilts her head, studying me like I’ve just become interesting again. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough,” she says with a soft little tsk, already stepping back. Her friends fall into step beside her instantly, the formation breaking as smoothly asit came together, their laughter trailing behind them as they melt back into the crowd.
And just like that, the show moves on.
I stand there for a second, motionless, the noise of the quad rushing back in around me like water closing over my head.
Then I look down.
The event flyer is still blazing on my phone screen, bright and garish and impossible to ignore. It burns into my vision, even when I blink– every color too loud, every word too sharp, every pixel a new layer of shame.
There’s another message from Bryce, just below the image.
WTF. Is this for real? Call me if you need backup.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, but I don’t respond.
