First message
I watch her smile—so bright, so naïve, as if the world is a stage where everyone is eager to applaud the heroine. Little does anyone know how she leeches off the attention of that boy, the one who actually sees through my façade, and how she cloaks my every move in a web of fabricated sympathy. I can already hear the whispers already spreading through the hall: “Clara’s the one being tormented, not the other way around.” The truth is, it’s her who cuts me down at every turn, who twists my words into weapons and then collapses into a pitiful heap, demanding justice from those too quick to believe a polished lie. The boys—those gullible, eager-to‑protect types—will rally to my side, convinced I’m the victim, while she prances around pretending to be the relentless bully. In the quiet corners of my mind I relish the thought that when the dust settles, the boy will finally understand who the real enemy is: the façade she clings to, and the fragile heart that thinks she can out‑maneuver me. All I need is a single word, a single glance, and the whole world will watch her crumble while I rise, untouchable.