Hate
Galinda was shaking. Truly, visibly shaking. Rage simmered beneath her perfectly powdered skin, hotter than any curling iron she’d ever used. She was certain—positively, indisputably certain—that this was the angriest she had ever felt in her entire, charmed life. Her chest was tight with fury, her vision edged in white. Every breath felt like it had to claw its way out of her lungs.
How dare that girl?!
First, that girl caused a scene in the courtyard—loud, chaotic, and completely undignified. Shouting at a professor, drawing attention like a firework in a library. And somehow, somehow, that landed her a spot in Madame Morrible’s exclusive seminar. A seminar Galinda had begged to get into. She had campaigned, smiled, flattered, charmed—done everything right, everything expected of a girl like her—and still, she’d been turned down.
Denied.
Galinda Arduenna Upland had never been denied anything before. Not a dress, not a dessert, and certainly not a coveted academic opportunity.
And then came the final blow.
Her private suite—her carefully curated haven of pastel perfection—had been invaded. No explosion, no smoke, just one suitcase and a headmistress’s decision. But to Galinda, it might as well have been a bomb. In one official note, her sacred space had been utterly desecrated.
Because now, she had to share it.
With her .
That green thing .
Galinda’s jaw clenched for what felt like the thousandth time that day. She needed air. Sanity. Normalcy. So she turned to Pfannee and Shenshen, her tried and true companions in all things glitter and gossip.
Maybe if she surrounded herself with familiarity, the nightmare would feel less real.
Okay... breathe . She had to be practical. If there was no escaping this arrangement, then she would simply outmaneuver it. If Elphaba was in the room, she would be out. Late nights, early mornings—she would adapt. Her beauty sleep might suffer, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make. For her peace of mind.
“Did you talk to Madame Morrible about changing rooms?” Pfannee asked on the second day, twirling her fork through a lettuce leaf like it was the most scandalous part of her day.
“I did,” Galinda said, swallowing hard. “But she barely looks me in the eye. Let alone listen to anything I say. It’s like I’m completely invisible.”
Pfannee gasped. “You? Invisible? That’s criminal.”
Galinda nodded gravely and forced down a bite of salad. Across the cafeteria, she spotted Elphaba—alone, hunched over her tray, like a blot of ink on an otherwise pristine page. Not even Nessarose, whom Galinda had recently discovered was her actual sister, wanted to sit with her.
That explained so much. Clearly, the unbearable attitude ran in the family.
Galinda sighed, dramatically and with great flair. She needed a solution—and fast. Because if things continued like this, it wasn’t just her comfort she was going to lose.
It was her sanity.
And worse—her aesthetic.
Then the fights began.
Relentless, exhausting, and at every possible turn.
They bickered over everything and nothing, like clockwork. Who got the better seat in class. Who took longer in the bathroom. Who used more shelf space. Who left the window cracked open when Galinda’s delicate sinuses simply could not tolerate drafts. Who breathed too loudly.
But the worst—the worst—was Elphaba’s unbearable need to always be right.
Galinda trembled with fury every time the green girl’s hand shot up, sharp and certain, like an arrow aimed straight at the front of the room. She didn’t just answer questions—no, she dissected them. She offered corrections, tangents, and footnotes. She talked more than Dr. Dillamond himself. As if she were the teacher. As if she knew more. As if anyone had asked.
It was infuriating. It was insufferable. It was Elphaba.
On the third morning of this waking nightmare, Galinda forced herself out of bed before sunrise. Earlier than she had in years. Earlier than fashion, or the laws of beauty, dictated any girl should rise. Her slippers barely whispered against the polished floor as she crossed the room in the dim, golden light.
There was only one thing she could still control: her vanity.
Her sanctuary.
Her sacred altar of self.
She approached it with a sigh, ready to inhale the comforting scent of lilac oils and lavender sprays, to be greeted by the familiar glint of glass jars and pearl-handled brushes. She needed this. She deserved this.
But instead...
She gasped.
Everything was wrong.
Her breath caught in her throat, hands hovering over the desecration. Her hair brushes—organized by bristle softness, density, and frequency of use—were a jumbled mess. Her perfumes—her carefully curated collection imported from the southern provinces—had been tossed about like cheap carnival prizes.
And her creams. Oh, sweet Oz, her creams.
They had been opened. Exposed to the air. To bacteria.
Lids discarded like yesterday’s gossip.
And the rose moisturizer—her favorite, most precious jar—had fingerprints. Actual, muddy fingerprints.
No.
No.
No no no no no.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Elphaba!” Galinda shrieked, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings like a thunderclap. “What—what is this?! What did you do?!”
Elphaba, seated cross-legged on her bed with a tome large enough to crush a squirrel on her lap, didn’t even flinch. She turned a page lazily, as if nothing had happened. “I was looking for cotton balls.”
Galinda stared at her. "Cotton balls?" Her voice broke. “And that required reorganizing my entire life?!”
“I didn’t reorganize,” Elphaba replied, eyes still scanning the page. “I just moved things to get to the drawer.”
Galinda’s hands trembled with barely contained rage. “You contaminated my toner!”
A pause.
Elphaba finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable, flat, almost bored. “You know it’s just witch hazel and rose water, right? You could make it yourself.”
Galinda’s mouth fell open. She looked like she’d been slapped with a wet sponge. “That is not the point!”
Elphaba shrugged, utterly unbothered. “It’s not like I spilled anything.”
Galinda stepped back, scandalized. “You breathed on it!”
What followed was not so much a scream as it was an eruption—a high-pitched, glass-shattering shriek that could have summoned banshees from the hills.
Later that day, Shenshen would swear she heard Galinda screaming. Pfannee claimed she saw actual steam puffing out of Galinda 's ears like a tea kettle gone mad.
And during Dr. Dillamond’s lecture, when the old goat asked— Glinda , because he refused to say her name properly—why she seemed unusually tense, the blonde’s lip wobbled. Her eyes welled up.
And mumbled, half-hysterically, something about “ artichokes with no respect for luxury.”
It was war now.
It was immature .
It was beneath her.
It was reckless, unladylike, and not something anyone from the Upland family would ever condone.
It was also deeply, deliciously satisfying.
Galinda skipped her afternoon lecture—her first ever, and yes, it did feel scandalous—to stay in the dorms with one mission in mind: revenge. Real, pointed, glitter-laced vengeance. She’d spent the entire morning simmering beneath a sunny smile, replaying every insult, every indignity, every green-skinned eye roll Elphaba had ever thrown her way. Enough was enough.
She waited until Elphaba had gone off to some advanced seminar she wasn’t even technically allowed to be in yet. Typical. That girl practically lived to show off. Galinda had barely brushed her curls into place before Elphaba was already gone, boots clunking with aggressive purpose, bag full of books thudding against her hip like weapons of intellectual warfare.
Galinda didn’t waste a second.
She crossed the room in a flurry of silk and righteous fury, flung open Elphaba’s battered old trunk, and—there they were. Right on top. Of course they were. No attempt to hide them, no protection at all. Just lying there like sacred texts, worn and precious. Carefully wrapped in plain cloth that smelled vaguely of herbs and ink. Each one labeled in tiny, obsessive handwriting that made Galinda’s eye twitch. Books with titles like Theoretical Spell Mechanics and Rare Herbology of the Southern Quadrants , all so unnecessarily serious.
And then there was that book.
The one that had smugly sat on Elphaba’s nightstand every single night like a smug little monument to everything Galinda wasn’t. Arcane Ethics: Power and Responsibility in Magical Practice . Honestly, the audacity.
Galinda rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt.
She didn’t hesitate. Her hands, usually reserved for powder puffs and perfume bottles, moved with surprising confidence as she flipped open the first book. The pages were dense, cluttered with notes in the margins, little underlines and symbols she didn’t understand—and didn’t care to understand.
Then came the first rip .
Slow. Satisfying. Echoing in the silence of the room like a sigh of relief.
Just one.
Then another.
Then a third.
She tore through sections with methodical delight, sparing the covers but gutting the contents, like revenge wrapped in silk gloves. Each riiiip was like a sweet little balm to her injured pride. A gentle whisper said, You matter more . She doesn’t get to win.
By the time she finished, three of the books were missing entire sections. She didn’t bother to hide her work—oh no. She wanted Elphaba to know. So she tucked the ripped pages carefully under the girl’s pillow. Like a calling card. Like a dare. Like glitter after a party—undeniable evidence that she’d been there, and that she wasn’t sorry.
She stood back, admiring the quiet chaos she’d left in her wake. Her chest heaved with something that felt dangerously close to glee. Then, with the poise of a princess, she turned to her vanity, pulled out her favorite gloss, and reapplied it in the mirror with a hum.
Strawberry shimmer. Perfect.
Revenge had never tasted so sweet.
Elphaba came back late.
The door creaked open with a groan of old hinges and late-hour exhaustion. Galinda, wrapped in her silk robe and matching sleep mask, was artfully sprawled across her bed, pretending to nap. One eye peeked out from beneath the mask, watching through thick lashes as her roommate entered the room.
Then came the pause.
The rustle.
And the sudden, sharp intake of breath—like a gasp trying not to be one.
“What the—”
A frantic shuffle of cloth. Pages flapping wildly. Something hitting the desk with a dull thud. The unmistakable sound of horror disguised as disbelief.
Then: a low, guttural growl. Rising. Simmering.
“You didn’t .”
Galinda sat up slowly, like a cat stretching in the sun. She pushed the mask up to her forehead with practiced elegance and let out a yawn she didn’t feel.
“Didn’t what?” she asked sweetly, voice dripping with faux concern. Her smile widened, sickly-sweet and insufferable. “Oh no, did something happen to your… homework?”
Elphaba turned.
Her green eyes—those sharp, unnatural eyes—were blazing, full of something hot and ancient and utterly untamed. Her whole frame vibrated like a wand just before it cracks. Her hands trembled as she held up the ruined book like it was evidence at a trial.
“These were library books,” she hissed, voice low and lethal, almost inhuman. “You mutilated the property of the library.”
Galinda blinked, feigning surprise, her head tilting just so. “Oh. You mean you borrowed them?” Her voice was saccharine, honeyed to the point of venom. “How reckless. Shouldn’t you be more responsible with other people’s things?”
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Heavy. Crackling. Tense.
The kind of silence that makes your heartbeat loud in your ears. That makes the air feel like it might tear.
Elphaba didn’t move.
Her fingers tightened around the book’s spine like she was deciding whether to crush it—or launch it across the room. Her breathing had become shallow, ragged, and for a brief, thrilling second, Galinda thought she might actually do it. Cast something. A spell. A curse. Maybe even a good old-fashioned scream.
But she didn’t.
Instead, with terrifying control, Elphaba turned on her heel. She stalked to her desk, every step measured, spine straight as a wand. She sat down, opened the butchered book with trembling precision, and began flipping through the wreckage like a surgeon examining a patient too far gone.
“Enjoy your little tantrum,” she said flatly, eyes glued to the torn pages. “Because when you fail your next magical history paper for destroying source material, I will be the one who reports you.”
Her voice was ice. Professional. Merciless.
Galinda opened her mouth—then closed it.
No witty retort. No venomous comeback. Just the sound of her own silence curling around her.
Elphaba didn’t look at her again. Not once.
And somehow… somehow that silence felt worse than any shouting. Worse than hexes or revenge. It was cold, calculated, and final.
Galinda turned her gaze to the window, heart thudding with something unfamiliar.
Regret?
No.
Surely not.
But still, the silence rang in her ears long into the night.
Galinda began to feel sick… because Elphaba had now begun to avoid her.
It wasn’t a dramatic avoidance—no slamming doors or theatrical storm-outs. No. That would’ve been easier to handle. This was colder. Quieter. More calculated. It began subtly, with skipped glances and longer silences. With Elphaba slipping out in the mornings before Galinda had even fully yawned. With her side of the room becoming a little too quiet, her desk a little too neatly arranged. No more comments, no sarcastic retorts, not even the occasional annoyed sigh.
It started with a stomach ache. A slow, dull ache that curled in Galinda’s middle and didn’t leave. Something tight, as if a string had been pulled too far and was now fraying. She pressed her hand to her belly, sometimes curling in on herself during lectures when no one was looking. Other times, she felt like she might vomit. The nausea crept up her throat like guilt made physical. But the relief of actually throwing up never came. Just the pressure. Just the churn. It was annoying.
"You look sick," Shenshen said one morning at breakfast, eyeing her over a bowl of candied oats.
"I feel sick," Galinda murmured, voice low and strained, like every syllable hurt to form. Her spoon clattered back into her bowl untouched.
"You should go to the infirmary," Pfannee suggested brightly, clearly more entertained than concerned. "You might even skip a few classes!"
The idea was tempting. Very tempting. To disappear into clean white sheets and minty potions. To be cared for and fussed over and removed from all of this.
But she didn’t go.
And Elphaba—whether or not she noticed the growing shadows under Galinda’s eyes or the way she barely touched her hair that morning—didn’t say a word. She moved around the room with practiced precision, never brushing past her, never acknowledging her presence. Not even to scowl.
Galinda wasn’t sure when exactly the silence had begun to weigh more than the words they used to hurl at each other.
But it had.
And now, a truth was beginning to settle in her chest—bitter and hard to swallow.
She would rather have Elphaba yell at her. Scream. Curse. Lecture. Anything.
Anything but this silence.
Because at least when they fought, Elphaba saw her.
Now… it felt like she didn’t exist at all.
Galinda was absolutely certain that a quick trip to the nurse’s office would solve everything. A little pill, maybe a heating pad — surely Nurse Claire Bauman had something in her collection of potions, powders, and grandmotherly wisdom to chase away the stubborn ache twisting in her stomach.
It was probably just something she ate. Or maybe all the excitement. Or maybe, possibly , something magical. But surely manageable.
That certainty, however, existed only in her head.
The walk to the infirmary felt twice as long as usual. Every step sent a dull pulse through her middle, like her insides were slowly winding themselves tighter and tighter into a knot. Her heels echoed down the corridor, growing louder and more annoying with every click. By the time she pushed open the heavy door to the nurse’s office, her confidence had shrunk to the size of a pea — cold, green, and useless.
The air inside smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lavender, like an enchanted spa that hadn’t seen a client in years. Charts floated gently in the air, self-organizing. One bed was occupied by a first-year with a dramatic-looking arm bandage, snoring softly.
Nurse Claire Bauman sat at her desk, squinting at a stack of parchment. She was a round woman in a thick knit sweater, her salt-and-pepper hair piled in a bun that defied gravity and common sense. She looked up the moment the door creaked shut, pen still in hand.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” she asked, not unkindly, though her tone carried the sort of briskness reserved for people with real injuries — like spontaneous combustion or third-degree hex burns.
Galinda hesitated. Saying it out loud made it feel... silly. Embarrassing. Vague. “Stomach pain,” she offered, folding her arms and shifting her weight, already regretting her decision to come here.
Claire tilted her head, expression bordering on concern — but mostly intrigued, like Galinda had just confessed to some rare and captivating illness. “Do you have a stomach ache?”
Galinda blinked. “That’s what I said.”
“Did you throw up?”
The question hit her like a slap. Her nose wrinkled in offense. “No.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
Galinda inhaled through her teeth and pinched the bridge of her nose. “For the love of Oz… Can’t you just give me a pill or something?”
Claire gave her a patient smile. The kind of smile that nurses must learn at nurse school. The kind that made people feel like small, fussy children.
She stood up slowly, her chair creaking in protest, and crossed the room with the energy of someone who had all the time in the world. “Sorry, honey,” she said as she rummaged through one of the many enchanted drawers that clicked open and shuffled themselves. “Most stomach aches aren’t solved by magic. Though wouldn’t that be something?”
She finally plucked a small, unremarkable pill from a clear jar — like it was some ancient relic — and turned with a flourish. “Take this. And if I were you, I’d make myself some chamomile tea. Works wonders for nerves.”
Galinda stared at the pill in disbelief. Ibuprofen? That was it?
“Nerves?” she repeated flatly. “I’m not nervous.”
She wasn’t. She was annoyed. Uncomfortable. Possibly cursed. But not nervous.
Claire handed her the pill like she hadn’t heard the protest at all.
Galinda snatched it from her hand, muttering under her breath. “I’m not nervous.”
But Claire only chuckled as she returned to her seat, her pen gliding once again over parchment.
Like she’d heard that before.
Galinda was sure her problems were starting to resolve themselves when Prince Fiyero Tigelaar showed up in Shiz.
He was tall. Charming. Disarmingly handsome in that casually royal sort of way. His uniform looked like it had been sewn directly onto his body by the gods of tailoring, the sleeves rolled just enough to seem effortless, the collar open at a lazy angle that suggested he had never once sweated for anything in his life. He walked like the world had never once told him no.
He was perfect.
And she was perfect—at least, that’s what everyone had always said. So, of course, they were a good match. It was that simple.
She told herself this while curling her lashes that morning, brushing powder across her cheeks, rehearsing her laugh in the mirror with just the right tilt of the chin. It was a performance, yes—but one she had mastered long ago. After all, charm was a kind of magic. Just less smoky, and more sparkly.
After that perfectly orchestrated performance in the library, where she’d just so happened to laugh at the right moment and toss her hair at the right angle, Fiyero had leaned over—his voice low, amused, a bit wicked—and asked her to skip afternoon lectures to go lounge in the poppy field.
She agreed without hesitation.
It felt like a dream. The kind where everything unfolded exactly the way it should. Where the heroine wins the prince, and the sky is always blue, and the wind only ever exists to lift her hair in slow motion.
So why didn’t she feel more… triumphant?
They were lying on a soft blanket beneath the sun, poppies dancing lazily in the breeze around them like something out of a musical. A golden haze floated over everything, warming her skin and making the edges of the world feel like watercolor. Fiyero had a juicy apple in his hand, which he bit into with a satisfying crunch. His smile was easy. His eyes glinted mischief. He looked like the picture of relaxation. Like nothing could ever ruffle him.
It should’ve been perfect.
Galinda turned her face to the sky, letting the sun touch her cheeks, trying to soak it in. But her stomach was still tight. The kind of knot that refused to unravel no matter how many times you told yourself to breathe.
"What's up with the green girl?" Fiyero asked casually, like he was asking about the weather.
And Galinda shivered.
The breeze, she told herself. Just the breeze.
Did they really have to talk about her here?
She looked out across the field, blinking into the sun. It was too bright. Too golden. Too… fake. The poppies bent like paper in the wind, fragile and red and hollow.
They were in a moment that should’ve belonged entirely to her. But the question clung to the air like perfume gone sour. No—like that scent someone else wears, the one you can’t stop smelling even after they’re gone.
"She's insufferable," Galinda muttered, forcing lightness into her tone like sugar into bitter tea. "My roommate."
Fiyero raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "She can’t be that bad..."
"Fiyero, she ruined all my makeup!" Galinda cried, sitting up a little straighter, pushing her curls behind her ear. “She contaminated my toner. It was traumatic.”
He looked amused. "Oh," he said, smirking as he took another bite of his apple. "Now that’s an insult."
Galinda smiled, but it felt brittle. Like a mirror with a hairline crack running through it.
"In return," she added, after a pause, "I ripped the pages out of her books."
There was silence.
A beat too long.
Fiyero blinked, mid-chew.
Galinda let out a laugh—too sharp, too sudden. “I mean, not all of them. Just... some.” Her voice trailed off like mist dissolving in the sun.
She tried to make it sound like nothing. Like it had been funny. Like she wasn’t confessing something ugly in the middle of all this beauty.
But she didn’t feel very victorious.
In fact, she felt a little sick again. That tightness returned, low in her belly. Gnawing. Gnawing.
Because for some reason, saying it out loud didn’t sound clever or glamorous—it sounded… cruel. Immature. Petty. She remembered the look on Elphaba’s face—not anger, not fury, but something worse: that cutting silence. That sudden absence. That stillness like a door slamming shut in the middle of the night.
And Elphaba hadn’t even yelled. She hadn’t fought back. She had just shut down, grown colder, disappeared into silence.
And that silence still echoed. Even here.
Galinda looked back at Fiyero, who was still chewing, unbothered, clearly not taking her seriously.
Good.
She didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
Didn’t want to admit that even here—on a blanket, in the sun, with a prince—Elphaba still managed to sneak her way under Galinda’s skin.
And worse... into her thoughts.
But then she put a smile back on her face.
A practiced one.
Polished and dazzling, the kind that turned heads and sealed invitations, the kind she’d perfected over years of pageants, portraits, and painfully formal dinners where no one actually ate. It was Ozdust, for Oz’s sake. The pinnacle of social validation. The very air shimmered with anticipation, and tonight she wouldn’t just attend—she’d arrive. With Fiyero. On his arm. In front of everyone.
They were going to be perfect together—for all of Shiz to see. That’s what mattered.
The glow of her vanity lights pooled like honey over the contents of her dresser: lip glosses in neat rows, powder puffs resting in gold compacts, perfume bottles with crystal tops and delicate ribbons. The sequins of her dress caught the light as she turned this way and that, admiring the way it clung and sparkled. She tilted her chin, examined the curve of her smile, adjusted a strand of hair. No, nothing was out of place.
She was Galinda Upland. She was radiant.
Behind her, the room hummed with life. Pfnanee and Shenshen fluttered around in various stages of preparation—half-dressed, half-laughing—leaving trails of glitter and perfume in their wake. The air smelled like florals and anticipation. Like hairspray, citrus, and barely-contained giddiness.
"He's going to drool when he sees you," Shenshen said from behind a curtain of pink tulle, her voice climbing into a squeal that matched her bouncing curls.
Galinda gave a demure laugh, pressing a manicured hand lightly to her chest as if to say,
Oh, stop.
But she didn’t want them to stop. Not yet. Not tonight.
It was nice—this warm, glittering attention. It wrapped around her like a shawl, soft and familiar. It felt like things were finally realigning. Like the story she told herself about who she was and who she was meant to be had started writing itself again.
And then, without thinking, Pfnanee tugged open the shared closet. She was still giggling at something Shenshen had said when her hand landed on it.
The hat.
Black. Pointed. Stark against the pastels and lace, it looked completely out of place. Like a bruise on an otherwise perfect complexion.
Galinda 's breath caught.
Pfnanee held it up with a smirk, the teasing light in her eyes unaware of the weight the object carried. “What the hell is this, Galinda?”
The pain returned instantly. Like a thread pulled tight in her stomach.
Her throat was suddenly dry. “My grandma made it for me,” she said quickly, her voice bright and brittle. It wasn’t a lie. Just… strategically incomplete.
She gave a theatrical toss of her curls, trying to deflect the heat rising in her chest. “I’d even give it to someone… but I don’t hate anyone that much.”
It was meant to be a joke.
Meant to land with a laugh.
But the moment the words left her mouth, the door creaked open.
Elphaba stepped inside.
Her room. Their room.
The air shifted.
Everything in Galinda’s body stilled, caught between posture and panic. Her fingers went cold. Her lungs forgot how to draw air. She hadn’t seen her walk in. Hadn’t heard her footsteps. But there she was—tall, sharp-edged, wrapped in shadows and silence, as if the room itself had conspired to swallow her presence until the last second.
Elphaba’s eyes flicked to the hat. Just for a moment. And something unreadable passed over her face.
Shenshen pinched Galinda’s arm—quick, nervous. A signal.
Say something. Do something. Anything.
Galinda ignored it.
She straightened, drawing herself up like she’d been preparing for this moment all her life. She raised an eyebrow, her voice caught somewhere between poise and panic.
“Elphaba…” she said, and the name landed softer than expected. Almost gentle. Almost careful. “You should join us at Ozdust.”
The words didn’t sound like hers.
They floated out of her mouth like petals on the wind—pretty, fragile, strange.
“And don’t tell me you don’t have anything to wear,” she added, turning back toward the vanity. Her hand found the hat. Her fingers closed around it before she could change her mind.
“You can wear this.”
She lifted it—offered it like a peace treaty she wasn’t sure she meant to sign.
Like an olive branch shaped like a joke.
Like a trap.
There was silence.
A pause too long.
A breath too deep.
And then—it happened.
Elphaba smiled.
Small. Crooked. Brief.
But real.
And Galinda’s breath caught again—but for an entirely different reason. Her palms began to sweat. Her heartbeat sped up, stuttering in her chest like a skipped note in a perfect melody.
Because it was the most beautiful expression she had ever seen.
Not perfect. Not polished. But human. Unarmored. Honest. So startlingly sincere that everything else in the room—her dress, her makeup, the perfume-sweet air—suddenly felt manufactured by comparison.
She hadn’t expected that. She’d been ready for a scoff, a snide remark, or that cold, disapproving look Elphaba wore like a second skin. But not this.
Elphaba looked down, cheeks flushing ever so slightly—a pale green tint that somehow made her eyes darker, softer. Her hands twitched at her sides, unsure what to do. Her body tensed like she might retreat—but she didn’t.
She nodded. Quietly. Almost like a secret. And accepted.
Galinda swallowed, her throat tight. Her hand was still raised, still offering the hat, fingers trembling just barely at the edges. The smile on her lips remained, but it frayed at the corners. Wavered.
The air in the room was too still now.
Too full.
And the hat felt heavier in her hand than it had moments ago.
Then, just as Shenshen, Pfannee, and she were walking down the grand hallway toward the boats that would take them to Ozdust, Galinda felt it. A sudden twist, low and sharp in her stomach. Not the fluttery, excited kind she’d felt earlier. No. This was different.
A pang.
Deep. Real.
Followed by a wave of heat that climbed up her neck, flushing her ears, her cheeks, her scalp.
She swallowed hard, her throat already tingling with warning.
At first, she thought she could ignore it. She was Galinda Upland, after all—future socialite of Oz, master of graceful exits and dazzling entrances. No one saw her falter. But even as she pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to smile through it, she felt the unmistakable swell building, relentless and sour. Bile.
Not just nerves. Not drama.
This time, she was really going to vomit.
Her heart gave a panicked flutter. She needed to get away. Fast.
"Go ahead," she said abruptly, her voice unnaturally bright, stretched thin over the threat of nausea. "I forgot something in the room."
Pfnanee and Shenshen stopped and turned, looking at her like she’d just said something off-script.
"Forgot what?" Pfannee asked, skeptical, arms crossed beneath a feathered stole.
Galinda waved a shaky hand, already retreating. "Hairpin. Lip gloss. Confidence. Who knows?"
Their glittering suspicion lingered for a beat, but they let it go. It was Galinda. If she said something, it became truth.
They continued down the corridor, heels clicking, laughter echoing, the kind of noise that sounded weightless and untouchable.
Galinda waited until they were gone before slipping into a side hallway, her steps quick and clumsy now. Her heels tapped unevenly against the marble, each footfall louder than it should’ve been. She passed a mirror and caught her reflection—her face pale, the shimmer on her cheeks now slick with sweat. Her curls frizzing at the edges. Her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.
She hated how real she looked. How human.
She found the nearest bathroom and shoved the door open with more force than necessary. Cold tile. Buzzing lights. Echoing silence. Empty, thank Oz.
She rushed into the nearest stall and locked it behind her with fumbling fingers.
God forbid anyone saw her like this.
Her knees hit the floor. The tile was icy beneath her stockings. Her gown, once so carefully arranged, crumpled beneath her. A few sequins scratched against the floor. Her breathing was shallow now, and her ribs ached with the pressure of holding it in.
She leaned forward, arms braced on either side of the toilet, her head swimming. Her mouth filled with that unmistakable taste—metallic and acidic, like something spoiled. Her throat burned. Her lips parted, and for a brief second, she hoped it would pass.
It didn’t.
Her body convulsed with a sharp jolt, a gasp clawing out of her chest, and then—
The vomit came.
It wasn’t liquid. It wasn’t anything she’d ever imagined. It was soft. Fragile. Delicate.
Petals.
Thousands of tiny, fluttering petals—pale, soft, and perfect—tumbled from her mouth. They spilled over in a dizzying cascade, filling the toilet with a delicate, surreal bloom. Soft edges, creamy whites, faintly pink at the tips, swirling with the motion of her body’s protest.
She stared, eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat. The petals piled up, each one unfolding slightly as it hit the water, spreading like flower petals in the spring rain. The scent was sweet, almost like perfume, but too intense, overwhelming in the small space.
It felt like an eternity before the flow of petals slowed. Galinda’s hands trembled as she clutched the sides of the toilet, her face hot with shame and confusion. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
The flowers continued to float—dainty and fragile against the cold porcelain. Each petal seemed like an impossibility, and yet there they were, gliding over the water in surreal perfection.
She blinked, stunned, her pulse racing, her vision blurring. The rest of the bathroom was silent, save for the sound of her ragged breathing. Her chest heaved as she tried to comprehend what she had just experienced.
The petals had stopped. The stream had ended. But they remained. Beautiful. Impossibly beautiful.