When I first saw her, I was convinced that she was nothing.

She wore a loose black t-shirt with some sort of design that had faded away a long time ago. Her jeans weren’t skinny and hung loose around her legs. Her glasses were big and she constantly pushed them up her nose with an almost nervous compulsion. Her shoulder-length hair hung freely in two strands in the front and the rest was tied haphazardly in a ponytail. Her face was clear, her features unremarkable with her glasses in the way.

I managed that analysis in about three seconds. And I thought I knew her.

But I shouldn’t obsess about her so much when I haven’t even introduced myself yet.

My name isn’t important. I’m just one of those girls. Some people call us queenkas. I find that ridiculous. I’ve only ever heard one person call me a queenka, and she spent all of her time reading low-quality fanfiction.

I was the rich, pretty, stuck-up popular girl who desperately clung onto everything that was hers. The typical villain of so many school life dramas and manhwas.

I considered myself a normal person. I wanted normal. I craved normal. But I was special.

My parents owned a multi-million dollar corporation. I was the richest girl in school, who was pretty and got good grades. Rumors flew of plastic surgery and bribery. Shady dealings and dishonesty. But I didn’t need to care.

My mom and dad never lavished me with attention. Only money and gifts. Empty words of “You’re special.” “You’re beautiful.” “You’re perfect.” So I was. I had to be.

I know, I know. I sound like every other self-important, spoiled rich girl with inferiority issues. Because I am.

Or was.

Who knows.

I was the rich popular girl.

He was the rich popular boy.

We were meant for each other.

Or so I thought.