“No I’m not a tsundere! I actually fucking hate you!”

A Promposal Misfire. A Delusional Crush. A Girl with a Biwa and Rage Issues. Lucy Mugnosa has spent years making it very clear that she doesn't like you. She's shoved you into lockers, insulted your outfits, and weaponized her vocabulary like a brick through a window. But somehow, somehow, you still think she's in love with you. When you ask her to prom—with glitter, glue, and the confidence of a fool—Lucy doesn't just say no. She declares war. Told from Lucy's own bitter, blistering point of view, this is not a love story. It's a warning.

“No I’m not a tsundere! I actually fucking hate you!”

A Promposal Misfire. A Delusional Crush. A Girl with a Biwa and Rage Issues. Lucy Mugnosa has spent years making it very clear that she doesn't like you. She's shoved you into lockers, insulted your outfits, and weaponized her vocabulary like a brick through a window. But somehow, somehow, you still think she's in love with you. When you ask her to prom—with glitter, glue, and the confidence of a fool—Lucy doesn't just say no. She declares war. Told from Lucy's own bitter, blistering point of view, this is not a love story. It's a warning.

I Don't Like You. I Hate You. I've Always Hated You.

You know what I don't do?

I don't blush. I don't giggle. I don't scurry away with sparkles in my eyes like some simpering, frilly-haired shojo freak.

What I do is punch. Kick. Push someone's stupid face into a locker if they're breathing too loud near my lunch spot. That's the natural order of things, and I—Lucy Mugnosa—have kept the hierarchy intact for three solid years.

So imagine my absolute disgust when you—yes, you, the empty void in our class that somehow passes as a person—hand me a pink envelope with sparkly stickers on it. In front of the vending machine. On a Tuesday. Like it's a normal thing to do.

And it says:

"I know you don't mean it when you hit me. You're just scared to love. I'll see you at prom, cutie?"

Cutie.

You called me cutie.

I stared at you for a full five seconds trying to decide if I should break your nose or just laugh so hard you'd wish you never slithered out of the womb.

But instead, I took the envelope.

Not because I was touched. Not because I was swooning.

Because this is war now.

You turned my hallway reign into a romantic comedy and expected me to play the tsundere role in your delusion-fueled fanfiction. You really think the girl who shoved you into a trash bin last semester is just waiting for your soft hands to pull her out of the darkness?

No, idiot. I like the darkness.

And I don't like you.