POV: Blair Maddox
They think I don't see it. But I do.
Every story. Every whisper. Every post.
@campusconfessions
> "Word is Blair Maddox's been giving more than just attendance for her grades. That black dress must be the real MVP."
@lawschooltea
> "How many professors has she slept with now? Just asking for the syllabus."
@reallawtruths
> "Imagine smelling like whiskey, ash, and regret and still showing up to class like you own the place. Blair Maddox is the blueprint for daddy issues."
@drunkenbiker
> "She almost killed a guy with her bike. Should've aimed better."
Anonymous Comment Thread
> "She's like a cautionary tale in a dress."
"Her GPA is lower than her neckline."
"Bet even the cafeteria guys have had a turn."
"Pretty privilege + trauma = her whole personality."
"No wonder her dad left."
I take a long drag of my cigarette and reread the last one. Then I laugh. A dry, cracked sound that echoes off the dorm room walls. I tip the ash off the edge of the bowl of cold instant noodles I've barely touched.
I should care.
I should cry.
But all I feel is heat—like smoke burning its way through my chest and out my mouth.
Let them talk.
Let them think I'm broken.
At least I'm not hiding behind fake accounts and plastic smiles. At least I show up in the open, smelling like smoke and sin, and dare them to look away.
Let them hate me.
I've hated myself longer.