Dellhey University was a world of its own—a microcosm where beauty, brains, and bravado collided in an endless struggle for attention and validation. For Shellie Stillburg, this wasn't just a place of education. It was a stage, and whether she liked it or not, she was always in the spotlight.
Her flawless auburn hair framed her face like a portrait, her brown eyes carrying a warmth that drew people in without effort. Her natural elegance was paired with an aura of self-assurance, making her the unwitting star of Dellhey.
But not everyone basked in her light.
Samaira Ashford had a different relationship with that glow. To Samaira, Shellie's radiance wasn't inspiring—it was blinding. And with every passing day, Samaira's envy grew darker, fed by the way Shellie seemed to effortlessly claim all the things Samaira secretly desired.
That morning, Shellie walked into the lecture hall wearing a simple white blouse and jeans, her satchel slung over one shoulder. Heads turned, as always, but Shellie ignored the attention. She was used to it by now.
Samaira, seated at the back, narrowed her eyes. Her sleek black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, her sharp features accentuated by a touch of makeup. She was striking, yes, but next to Shellie, she felt invisible.
As Shellie took her usual seat near the window, a few boys gathered at the far end of the room exchanged glances and smirks.
"She's so perfect," one of them muttered. "Like, how can someone be that pretty and not even try?"
Samaira caught their words, and her jaw tightened. She leaned forward, her voice loud enough for the entire row to hear.
"Perfect, huh?" she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, if perfection means hiding behind a pretty face."
The boys turned to her, curious. One of them, Aman, grinned. "What do you mean, Samaira?"
Samaira smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, don't get me wrong. Shellie's pretty, sure. But she's not all that. I mean, come on, have you seen her waistline? Or—" she let out a mocking laugh, "—do I even need to mention her bra size?"
A ripple of laughter passed through the group, though some of the boys shifted uncomfortably. One of them whispered, "Is she serious?"
Shellie, overhearing the comment, froze for a moment but didn't turn around. She took a deep breath, her grip on her pen tightening.
Samaira wasn't done. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. "Honestly, I don't know how she manages to pull off that confidence. Like, you'd think with such... modest proportions, she'd feel at least a little insecure."
This time, the laughter was louder. A few students from other rows turned their heads, curious about the commotion.
One of the boys, Dev, chuckled nervously. "Come on, Samaira, don't be mean."
"Mean?" Samaira said with mock innocence. "I'm just being honest. Besides, it's not like I'm wrong, am I?"
Shellie turned slowly in her seat, her brown eyes locking onto Samaira's with a steady gaze. "Samaira," she said, her voice calm but firm, "if you have something to say to me, you should say it directly. Otherwise, I'd appreciate it if you kept your insecurities to yourself."
The room fell silent.
For a moment, Samaira looked caught off guard. But then she laughed, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. "Insecurities? Oh, sweetie, I'm not the one who needs a padded bra to feel confident."
The jab was sharp, and Shellie felt the sting of it. But she refused to let it show. She straightened her back, her voice steady as she replied, "You know, Samaira, it's funny. You spend so much time trying to tear me down, but all it does is show everyone how much you're struggling to build yourself up."
Gasps echoed through the lecture hall. The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances, some stifling laughter, others whispering behind their hands.
Samaira's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. "Well," she said, her voice brittle, "if standing up for the truth is what you call struggling, then I'm happy to do it."
Shellie turned back to her notebook, dismissing Samaira with the grace of someone who had nothing to prove. But inside, her heart was pounding.
Later that afternoon, Shellie walked across the campus courtyard, her head held high despite the lingering sting of Samaira's words. She passed a group of boys lounging under a tree, their eyes following her as she walked by.
"Dude," one of them said, nudging his friend. "She's got that killer walk, man. Who cares about bra sizes when she's got that confidence?"
Shellie heard them but didn't react. She was used to being talked about, both good and bad.
Meanwhile, Samaira sat with her friends in the cafeteria, fuming.
"She thinks she's so untouchable," Samaira muttered, stirring her coffee aggressively. "But she's not. Everyone has a weakness. I just need to find hers."
Asha, one of her closest friends, leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, you could always... exaggerate things a bit. Spread some rumors."
Samaira's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I don't need to lie. The truth is enough. Besides, I've got something better planned."
The tension between Shellie and Samaira continued to build over the next few days. In class, Samaira's comments grew bolder, her jabs more pointed.
"Shellie," Samaira said one morning, "do you ever feel like you're not... filling out your potential? You know, academically or otherwise?"
The boys chuckled, some whispering among themselves. Shellie's face remained composed, but her knuckles whitened as she gripped her pen.
"I think," Shellie replied evenly, "that everyone's potential looks different. But I'm sure yours will shine through someday, Samaira."
The subtle dig didn't go unnoticed. Samaira's smile tightened, her eyes flashing with frustration.
But the real breaking point came one evening during a group study session in the library. Shellie was seated at a table with a few classmates when Samaira walked in, her presence commanding attention.
"Shellie," Samaira said, her voice loud enough to silence the room, "I was wondering—what's it like being... average in so many ways? Or do you just rely on your face to make up for it?"
A few boys laughed, but this time, others shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Shellie to see how she would respond.
Shellie stood slowly, her brown eyes locking onto Samaira's with quiet intensity. "Samaira," she said, her voice calm but firm, "you can insult me all you want. But the truth is, your words say more about you than they do about me. And honestly, I feel sorry for you."
The room fell silent. For a moment, Samaira looked stunned, her confidence cracking under the weight of Shellie's words.
But as Shellie walked away, Samaira's expression hardened. She wasn't done—not by a long shot.