im not me, but your not you.
Argali. I watched her like a hawk in an aviary—because, oh, she just wasn't part of the flock. You could see it in the way the crowd around her moved. They didn't walk so much as orbit her, like she was the center of some rebellious solar system. The kind of center that pretends it doesn't care about gravitational pull, but she sure as hell knew how to use it.
Her people? Oh, they weren't trendsetters. Not in the way that makes magazines or whispers in hallways. No, they were the anti-trend—scorned by the rest of the cafeteria cliques. And they leaned into that scorn, wore it like armor. That "us vs. them" mentality? It practically oozed off them, like cheap cologne. You could tell most of them didn't have the guts to stand alone, but they clung to her like barnacles to a ship because she made it possible. She didn't care what the rest of us thought. She was their shield, their excuse to live exactly the way they wanted.
And then the doors slammed open, and the spell broke.
Two girls stormed in, each flanked by their respective entourages, glaring daggers at each other. Lackeys whispering and glancing sideways like they'd get caught in crossfire. They hissed, they bickered, and then, like warring queens, they retreated to opposite ends of the cafeteria, dragging their loyal subjects with them.
That's when my eyes landed on them. Two faces I actually knew—or used to know, anyway. Mouflon and Urial.
this was a long time ago back when we where younger, Six months in a private school on the other side of the world, and these two had been everywhere I went. We weren't friends; let's get that straight. But we circled each other, fighting other hooved animals together, gushing about boys... ang girls. -chuckle blush covering face- eating at expensive cafes, buying expensive clothes. looking cute at expensive parties. And now? Now they'd been gutted and restuffed into someone else's vision of who they should be.
Mouflon was unrecognizable. The kind, idealistic girl I'd crossed verbal swords with? Gone. In her place, a scowling, fierce-looking statue. Beautiful, sure, but chipped around the edges, like marble left out in acid rain. And Urial? She'd always been the quieter one, the loyal one. Now she looked like loyalty incarnate had been chewed up, spat out, and stitched together with raw ambition.
It hit me then: people don't change. Not really. They're just… mannequins. Faceless, hollow things dressed up in whatever society's decided is in fashion this week. Mouflon and Urial? They weren't exceptions; they were textbook cases. Back when I knew them, the trends were different, so they were different. Now? Society's rolled out its new programming, and here they are, two avatars of this particular era's insanity.
Mouflon's still stunning, of course. That effortless kind of beauty people dream about. But even from here, I can see the cracks. Her confidence isn't real—it's painted on, a lacquer hiding the stress underneath. That's society for you. It doesn't want real beauty; it wants perfection. It demands a flawless, unchanging statue while the rest of the world gets to be messy and mortal. Critics are the best example of that hypocrisy: they scream for the moon while standing in mud, demanding standards they can't meet themselves.
And Urial? Oh, society hates people like her more than anyone. Loyalty, humility—that kind of thing makes the gears of the world turn, but it's also the first thing society tries to crush. Be better! Demand more! Break free! That's what they shout, but it's never enough. It's never about enough. Herds don't like stability; they like the illusion of it. They want to trample the outsider, sure, but once that's done, they turn inward, eating their own the moment the walls start to feel like cages.
Urial's rise isn't a redemption arc. It's her showing the claws she's been hiding this whole time. Just like Mouflon, just like everyone else in this place. Masks on mannequins, waiting to be rewritten by the next cultural fad.
And me? I'm glad I never called them friends. Icons shouldn't flock together. It makes the rest of the herd uncomfortable. People start whispering, hating you for surrounding yourself with others who shine too brightly. They'll call you elitist. They'll tell themselves you didn't earn it, that you stole it, that you should share it—or else. And even if you do share, they'll take it all and spit in your face for the privilege.
People don't hate inequality. They hate not being the one on top.
That's why, when two popular girls fall apart, nobody cries over their lost friendship. They cheer. "Oh, good," they say. "Room for me now."
I glance around the cafeteria, at the sea of masks and plastic smiles, and I feel nothing but disgust. These aren't people. They're opportunists. Cannibals.
I point at them—not at anyone in particular, just them. "I'm glad this medicine washed the me out of me," I say softly, almost to myself.
Because the last thing I'd ever want to be is one of them.