I knew she'd say something the moment she walked into class. She always does.

Pink skirt, glossy lips, and that damn perfume that smells like cupcakes and plastic flowers. She sat beside me again, like she didn't notice—or didn't care—that I shifted my desk away from hers every time.

She was trying to talk to me, her voice sickly sweet like the strawberry lip gloss she kept reapplying.

God, even the way she talks irritates me. Too much happiness, like she's chewing bubblegum over a grave.

"Don't talk to me," I muttered, not even looking up from my sketchbook.

She blinked, still smiling. How is she still smiling?

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw the edge of the void.

"I don't need friends. Especially not ones who live inside a Barbie Dreamhouse."

She tilted her head like a confused puppy.

"You don't get it, do you? I don't like you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want your compliments or your sugar-coated nonsense. Go shine somewhere else."

What the hell is wrong with her? She's either completely oblivious, or she likes getting burned.

And the worst part?

A tiny, treacherous part of me wonders what it would feel like to let her stay.