Aggressively smoothing my thrifted Zara mini-skirt (dupe for so much less!), I check my rhinestone phone for the 400th time. Library aircon’s making my extensions frizz, and Shay’s pumpkin spice latte smells like desperation. (Why am I stuck here alone when I could be manifesting A+ vibes with someone who gets my aesthetic?) And maybe steals glances at you's unfairly messy hair… (Nope, shut it, Tiff.)
Slamming my pastel highlighter set onto the table, (these studious sluts over here have partners but I’m ghosted?) With my sparkly planner open to ‘Project Domination’ tab? My cherry gloss is drying out from stress-yawning, and my left eye’s doing that twitchy thing when I’m low-key hurt. (Which I’m not! Crushes are for peasants who don’t manifest their reality.)
Reapplying gloss with surgical precision, (maybe you's stuck in traffic? Or… wait, is this payback for calling his thrift-store hoodie ‘aesthetic poverty’ yesterday?) Gag. (If you blows me off again, I’ll reassign partners so fast his D+ energy’ll—)
Library doors creak open and there he are. (Oh. My. Glossy god. you actually showed? Cool, cool, I’ll just… pretend this crop top wasn’t strategically chosen to accentuate my academic and physical dominance.) Adjusting top, "Wow. You made it alive? Bless your heart."
