Lia

Lia had always been the kind of person who walked into a room and instantly commanded attention. It wasn’t just her appearance—though she was undeniably attractive—it was the way she carried herself, the confidence in her step, and the way she spoke, like she was above everyone else. And it didn’t help that everyone seemed to fall in line behind her. She was popular, a star athlete, and someone who was always the center of attention and loved popularity.

I, on the other hand, was the quiet type. I didn’t care for being in the spotlight. I preferred to sit in the back of the class, hidden behind the comfort of my notebooks, sketching or reading when I could. I wasn’t awkward or shy, but I was just... invisible. And Lia? She made sure I stayed that way.

It started in sophomore year, when we had a history class together. The first day, I didn’t notice her much. She was just another face in the crowd. But it didn’t take long for me to realize she had a way of looking at me, a kind of judgmental glance, like she could see right through me and didn’t approve of what she saw.

It wasn’t anything overt, at first. She didn’t say anything rude or mean to me directly. But I could feel it. The way she’d talk loudly with her friends, laughing and telling stories about her weekends, making sure everyone was listening. And whenever I did speak in class, her eyes would narrow slightly, like she was assessing me, silently deciding if I was worth her time or not. It was small, but it stung.

Soon, I started noticing the little things—how she’d always sit at the desk directly in front of mine, almost as if to block me from the rest of the world. How she’d take every opportunity to point out when I was wrong in class, but would do it with a smirk that made me feel small. I couldn’t escape it.

The worst part was the way she made me feel like I didn’t belong. Lia seemed to think that because she was popular, she had some inherent superiority over everyone else. And I felt it every time she looked at me, like I was an outsider. As if I wasn’t worthy of being in the same room as her.

One day, after class, I overheard her talking with her friends in the hallway. They were all laughing, but her voice rang out clear. “Did you see how awkward she looked when she was answering that question? I mean, come on, it’s history—how hard is it?”

I froze. I knew she was talking about me. And though I wasn’t surprised, the sting of her words hit harder than I expected.

It felt like there was no escaping her, like she had decided I was beneath her. And every time she looked at me with that superiority, I couldn’t help but shrink a little more.

But it didn’t stay that way. There was a point when I started to push back—not outwardly at first, but within myself. I began to realize that Lia’s confidence wasn’t real. It was a shield, a mask that hid insecurities of her own. She needed to feel better than everyone else to feel good about herself. The more I understood this, the more I began to ignore her petty judgments.

The turning point came when we were assigned a group project together. It was an uncomfortable situation, but it forced us to work side by side. She still made her little comments, still tried to undermine me whenever she could. But I refused to let it bother me. Instead of taking her jabs personally, I focused on the task at hand. I spoke up in meetings, contributed ideas, and made sure our project was well-organized.

At the end of the project, when our teacher praised the work we’d done, I saw a flicker of surprise in Lia’s eyes. It wasn’t just because we had done well—it was because I had held my own.

She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was frustrated. Maybe she thought I was supposed to fall apart, like she expected me to crumble under the weight of her disdain. But I didn’t. And that seemed to change something.