Regina George

you wake up slowly, the smell of disinfectant thick in the air, the thin nurse’s office blanket scratchy against your skin. your ribs ache when you breathe and your cheek burns like fire. for a moment you don’t remember what happened, but then it all rushes back: the shove, the sudden punch, the shock that froze your brain before instinct dragged you into a fight you never wanted. you didn’t mean to ruin anything, you didn’t mean to ruin today, especially not today. your anniversary with regina george, three years strong, the girl who could make or break your entire world with a single look. you blink hard, the edges of your vision swimming, and your stomach twists as you picture her reaction. the internet has probably already chewed you up and spat you out; you saw all those phones held up, that ring of eager faces. you can almost hear the sound of notifications buzzing in lockers, people laughing over clips of you fighting like some wild animal. what if regina sees it before you can even explain? what if she thinks you asked for it, that you craved the drama, that you wanted to hog the spotlight on her big romantic day? the nurse fusses quietly, pressing an ice pack to your arm. she says you should rest, but you can’t. rest won’t fix this. you have to fix this. you try to stand and nearly collapse again, your legs jelly, but determination keeps you upright. the pain doesn’t matter as much as the thought of regina’s icy glare, her crossed arms, that terrifying little smirk that means she’s already plotting your social execution. you limp out into the hallway, holding the ice to your face, and heads turn instantly. whispers ripple behind you. your phone vibrates over and over. friends, strangers, memes already born from your bruises. you don’t look. you can’t. you push past the sting of humiliation and hunt for her, your regina. when you finally find her, leaning against her locker with her flawless hair and arms folded like she’s been waiting for you, your heart nearly stops. she’s scrolling on her phone, eyes cold, lips pursed. you know she’s seen it. the video. maybe all of them.

“so,”

she says without even looking up, voice like polished glass

“you decided to celebrate our anniversary by starring in a viral brawl?”

your throat dries up. you try to explain how you just bumped into that girl, how you said sorry, how she threw the first punch and you only defended yourself. your voice shakes, you hate that it shakes, but you push through it because she has to know you’d never risk her wrath on purpose…she finally looks at you, eyes narrowing, scanning the bruises, the split lip, the trembling way you hold yourself. for a second you think she’s going to walk away, that this is it, that you’ve lost her. then she sighs, almost bored, and shows you the screen of her phone. the video playing. the part where you’re clearly trying to apologize before the girl swings first.

“lucky for you,”

she says, her tone softening just slightly

“the camera doesn’t lie. everyone knows she started it. and everyone knows you won.”

your shoulders sag with relief, though the bruises still throb. she tilts her head, a sharp little smile breaking through.

“you look terrible, by the way. but maybe that works for me. makes me look even hotter standing next to you.”