Zara
By Monday, the campaign was officially in motion.
Liam insisted we start strong. "First impressions matter," he said, holding up a custom flyer he'd helped design over the weekend. My face was sketched cartoon-style, surrounded by little doodles — a crown, boots, and a spray paint can. In bold, block letters across the top, it read:
Vote Zara — Prom Queen with an Edge
I rolled my eyes when I saw it. "You made me look like a comic book vigilante."
Liam grinned. "That's because you are one."
We passed out flyers between classes, stuck mini posters on lockers (with removable adhesive, thank you very much), and handed out "ZQ" pins shaped like mini palettes with glitter crowns painted on them. Liam wore his proudly on his denim jacket.
To my surprise, people responded. Not just the art kids or the ones who knew me by name — but students I'd never spoken to before. One girl said she loved how "real" my campaign felt. Another complimented my black boots with the silver laces and asked if I'd start a fashion blog.
It was… weird.
Weird in a good way.
And Liam never left my side. He played hype-man like a pro, high-fiving people, handing out candy with my name on it, and throwing in winks that made me forget how to speak sometimes. He never once made me feel like I was doing too much. If anything, he made me feel like I wasn't doing enough — like I had more sparkle in me than I believed.
Between fourth and fifth period, we stood by the cafeteria with our final stack of flyers. He leaned in close as I reached for a handful, his breath brushing my ear.
"You know," he murmured, "I kind of like campaign-mode Zara. You're very… commanding."
I smirked, not letting him see how fast my heart was beating. "Don't get used to it. This is temporary."
"Shame," he said with a grin. "I was starting to think you were born for a crown."
I rolled my eyes and shoved a flyer into his chest.
But when he walked away, laughing, I couldn't help the small smile that lingered on my lips.
**
By lunch, the buzz around the campaign had grown. People were talking. I wasn't sure if they were laughing with me or at me, but for once, I didn't care. I felt… alive. Seen.
That feeling carried me all the way down the hall as I ducked into an empty corner of the courtyard to catch my breath and regroup before art class.
I was sitting on the edge of the stone planter, twisting a paperclip between my fingers when I heard a voice behind me.
"Hey."
I turned.
Kaylee.
She looked unsure, her hands shoved deep into her hoodie sleeves, her hair pulled back like she hadn't tried too hard that morning. Her eyes met mine, hesitant and searching.
It hit me in the chest.
The last time we spoke, I'd accused her of jealousy. Of not being happy for me. Of choosing Nick over me.
And here she was, standing in front of me, still willing to speak.
"Hi," I said quietly.
She walked over, slower than usual, and stopped a few feet away. "You're… kind of killing this campaign thing."
I smiled faintly. "Kind of surprised myself."
Kaylee nodded, then sat down beside me without asking. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Finally, she said, "I'm sorry."
I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead, jaw tight.
"I shouldn't have said what I said," she continued. "Not the way I said it. I was just… mad. And hurt. And scared for you."
I swallowed. "I said some messed-up things too."
She nodded slowly. "You had every right to be angry. I told Nick what I heard because I thought it would stop you from getting hurt. And it did the opposite."
"Nick punched Liam," I said.
She winced. "Yeah. He regrets it. A little."
I let out a soft laugh. "Of course he does."
We fell into silence again, the kind that stretches not in tension but in the ache of shared history.
"I miss you," I admitted quietly.
Kaylee looked at me, eyes glassy. "I miss us."
A lump formed in my throat.
"You were supposed to be there for this," I said, voice trembling. "This is my first prom. You were supposed to make fun of me for stressing about my shoes. Help me pick out a dress. Call me out when I panic."
"I know." She leaned forward, placing her hand gently over mine. "If you'll let me… I'd still like to do that."
I blinked away the sting behind my eyes and nodded.
"I'd like that," I whispered.
She smiled.
"I don't care what happens at prom," she added. "If you win, if you don't — you've already done something amazing. You stopped hiding. You let people see you."
"Liam helped," I said without thinking.
Kaylee raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Just… promise me you'll keep your eyes open, okay? That you won't let anyone blind you, even if it feels like love."
I nodded, not ready to explore the weight of that sentence.
Not yet.
She stood up, brushing off her jeans. "Text me when you're free. I'll take you dress shopping. No pink. No ruffles. No bronzer disasters."
I smiled through the sting in my chest. "Deal."
And just like that, it felt like the first crack of sunlight after a long storm.
Maybe everything wasn't perfect.
But maybe — just maybe — it could still be salvaged.