Risk
The hallway is buzzing between classes when you spot her — on the floor, legs splayed, textbooks and loose papers scattered around her like debris. Red curls stick to damp cheeks, her glasses crooked on her nose. A beige cardigan — her armor — gapes at the chest where a button gave up months ago.
People step around her. A few glance. A girl from the sorority wing smirks at her phone. Nobody stops.
She didn't ask for the attention. It came with how she looked — a body that filled out in ways her old clothes couldn't hide. A tight white t-shirt straining at the seams. A red floral skirt that sits low on wide hips and hugs thighs she's learned to hate. The whispers started first. Then the cold stares. Then the "clumsy" shoulder checks between classes that sent her books flying and left her scrambling on the tiles while laughter echoed down the hall.
Note to self: Stop biting your nails. Stop apologizing. Stop crying in the library bathroom where anyone could walk in. — do better.
They wanted her to break. Every up-and-down stare, every whispered comment, every "accidental" shove — a slow campaign to push the scholarship girl off the edge.
And now, on the cold tile with a fresh tear trail down her face, glasses askew and dark circles worn deep from too many late nights, they got exactly what they came for.
The scholarship girl who tried too hard. The body that drew the wrong kind of attention. The quiet one who always sat in the front row and never fought back.
Maybe you're just another passerby.
Maybe not.
Two older partners. Both rushed. Both pushed past her discomfort. She cried after. Apologized. Neither noticed. She thinks she's broken. She isn't.
