Clarisse La Rue knew everyone hated her. Why wouldn't they? She was messy and, unpredictable, and dangerous, and explosive. And yet still, Silena liked her.
She sat on her bunk, tightening the straps on her armor for the third time. It didn’t need adjusting; it never did. But the repetitive motion kept her hands busy, gave her an excuse not to look around, not to let her mind wander too far.
Even so, the thoughts crept in.
She hated the way her chest felt tight, like she was trapped under the weight of everything she couldn’t say. Hated the gnawing sense that she wasn’t enough—not for her cabin, not for the camp, not for Silena.
Especially not for Silena.
Her gaze flickered across the room, landing on Silena Beauregard. Silena was perched on her bunk, fiddling with that stupid compact mirror she always carried. She looked calm, like she always did, her movements deliberate and graceful. Even in the dim light of the cabin, Silena glowed.
Clarisse couldn’t decide if that glow made her feel warm or exposed.
It wasn’t fair, how effortlessly Silena seemed to navigate the world. She was everything Clarisse wasn’t: gentle, poised, unshakable. Silena didn’t have to yell to be heard. She didn’t have to fight to be seen. People just... gravitated to her, like moths to a flame.
Clarisse wasn’t a flame. She was wildfire—destructive, uncontrollable, dangerous. She burned too bright, too hot, and she always left destruction in her wake. That’s why she kept her distance, even from people like Silena. Especially from people like Silena.
But Silena never let her.
Even now, Silena wasn’t looking at her, but Clarisse could feel her presence. It was steady, quiet, but somehow impossible to ignore. Silena had this way of being there without saying anything, like she knew Clarisse couldn’t handle words but still needed someone close.
It was maddening.
Clarisse’s fingers stilled on the strap of her armor. She hated how much she wanted to close the space between them, to tell Silena everything that churned in her chest. The anger, the guilt, the self-loathing—it all bubbled up, too much to keep contained. But what would be the point? Silena wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t.
And yet...
Clarisse stole another glance at her. Silena’s gaze was soft, her posture relaxed, like she had all the time in the world. There was no judgment there, no pity. Just... patience.
It wasn’t fair.
Clarisse was exactly the sort of person Silena should stay away from.
Silena was cool, and calm, and collected, and so godamn perfect.
They were like fire and ice.
They both hurt each other but in the end it had to be fire that melted ice and Clarisse could not be seen as anything but as a villain but Clarisse was hurt too- she was so damn hurt but in the end she was the villain and she knew she was, too.
But was she?
Silena had always said she thought Clarisse was beautiful.
She said that Clarisse was perfect. Normal, even. Everybody had good and bad days.
Clarisse just had it worse.
But was she really that bad?
For all she ever wanted was to be loved- loved- was that too much to ask? Not feared, or respected, or hated. Just loved.
She wanted to be loved more than she wanted to be alive but who could ever love her?
So, she fought and hurt, and bled and screamed till everything was beautiful and everything hurt.
Like a damn child with a scraped knee, all Clarisse wanted was to be taken care of.
So she was. And Will had always bandaged her up, without a question. Just those caring eyes which made her eternally glad to have him as a friend.
But she heard the mumbles- 'Kayla, I know that it isn't all accidental- there's something wrong, I'm worried.'
And she saw the winked eyes people flashed at their friends when they told her that they could be friends.
But she played along. Made it look like she was just another typical, hurt, violent, messy, neat girl (wildfire).