If I had ever imagined college would be a clean break from the emotional chaos of high school — I was very, very wrong. Turns out, drama doesn't stop at graduation. It simply evolves, like some expensive perfume-wearing Pokémon.
Her name?
Darby Monroe.
To be fair, I had heard of her before I ever saw her. Whispers in the hallway. Instagram posts that had more likes than my entire feed combined. Girls wanted to be her. Boys… well, let's just say they'd volunteer to do her group assignments gladly. She had this glow about her — like she was permanently walking through golden-hour lighting with a personal wind machine.
And then she waltzed right into my class.
Wearing designer jeans, a flawless blowout, and a smug smile like the universe owed her something — and was already late delivering it.
At first, I thought she was just another pretty face, maybe someone who'd date James and break his heart so I could awkwardly comfort him from the shadows. But no. Darby had history with him. They were "camp friends." The kind that exchanged inside jokes and lingering looks. Every time she touched his arm, a piece of my self-esteem broke off and died quietly.
I hated how easily she fit in — how she made everyone laugh without even trying. Meanwhile, I had to mentally rehearse asking someone for a pencil like it was a monologue from Hamlet.
And James? He didn't exactly help.
He didn't flirt with her — not openly — but he also didn't not flirt. He smiled when she giggled. He listened when she talked. And worst of all… he forgot I was sitting right there.
One day after class, I finally reached my boiling point.
I was mid-sentence, telling James something funny Sophie had said, when Darby swooped in — all hips and high heels — and cut me off with a chirpy, "Jamieee, remember that night at camp with the marshmallows and the prank? Oh my gosh!"
He laughed. Not just a polite chuckle — a full, teeth-showing laugh.
I faded from the conversation like a glitch in the Matrix. I stood there awkwardly, backpack hanging from one shoulder, trying not to look like the third wheel on a very sparkly bicycle.
And I hated myself for caring. I hated that my heart thudded every time she touched his shoulder. I hated how small I felt standing next to her.
So, I left.
I didn't say goodbye. I just walked to the cafeteria, sat in the farthest corner, and stared at my untouched plate like it had betrayed me.
Enter: Sophie.
My personal hurricane of energy and sarcasm. She flopped down across from me, took one look at my face, and said:
"Okay. Who do I have to fight?"
I shook my head. "No one."
She narrowed her eyes. "Does this have to do with your crush on Mr. Cheekbones?"
I blinked. "You… knew?"
She rolled her eyes. "Charlotte. You talk about James like you're describing a lost Greek god. Of course I knew."
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "It's so stupid. I know he's out of my league. I know girls like Darby are who he notices — not girls who quote biology textbooks and wear glasses."
Sophie didn't speak for a second. Then she leaned forward and said the words that would change everything:
"Well then, let's give him someone new to notice."
I lifted my head. "What?"
"Tomorrow. We're turning you into a distraction so dazzling even Darby's fake eyelashes will fall off from shock."
I laughed — a real one this time.
"You're serious?"
"Oh, I'm dead serious," she said. "We're doing hair, makeup, wardrobe — the works. Because you, my friend, are done being background noise."
I stared at her, overwhelmed. "What if I still feel invisible?"
She smiled. "Then we'll slap on more lip gloss and try again the next day. But I promise you, Charlotte… the real you? She's been waiting for this moment. Let's show her off."
And just like that, my heart — bruised and fragile — fluttered with something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Hope.