God, I hate her so much.

I hate the way she smiles, the way she laughs, the way she jumps up and down with joy when she gets good news.

But most of all, I hate the way she can have everything I can’t—she gets all the boys. No matter how hard I try, she’ll win everything I want.

I see her everywhere—the hair like spun gold, the sparkling, ocean blue eyes, the long, dark lashes. She’s in my head, whether she’s in my peripheal vision or not. I can’t erase the pretty little ribbons she likes the wear in her hair and the way that they fold over her perfect ponytails she likes to wear. The way she curls them around her hair, double knots it, ties a tiny bow and lets the ends flow long and unbothered. God, why must she be so flawless? Even now, I can picture her red, knitted jumper, her pleated skirt and her dangling golden earrings. Not even the white soles of her black converse shoes escapes my mind.

Wait.

The soles of her shoes are not completely white.

You don’t see it immediately, but… Looking closely, the pearly colour is not pearly at all. They’ve got a smidge grey, almost as if… she’s gotten them dirty? Ha! Well, guess she’s not perfect then. She doesn’t even take good care of her shoes, letting them get ever so filthy. Little bitch.

But when I open my eyes, she’s simply sitting across the library, book and pen in hand. I glance at the clock; 30 minutes have passed.

Was it worth it? I don’t know.

Did it make me feel any better?