The Boy They Warned Me About

🌟 Chapter 1 : How to Make Friends ( Apparently)

I lay on my stomach, my tablet propped up in front of me.

For the past three hours, I'd been binge-watching videos with titles like How to Make Friends, How to Stop Feeling Anxious, How to Stop Caring What People Think About You, and my personal favorite, How to Make Your Classmates Respect You.

The guy in the video smiled confidently at the camera.

"Walk into the room like you own it."

I nodded seriously.

"Okay," I whispered.

He continued.

"Maintain eye contact."

"Got it."

"Smile naturally."

"...You're asking for a lot."

You might be wondering why I'm watching all these videos.

No, it's not because I'm the new girl.

I've been going to Westview High since ninth grade.

Unfortunately.

Every new term, I convince myself that this is the semester I'll become one of those confident girls who casually says "hi" to people without rehearsing it seventeen times in her head first.

So I spend hours watching motivational videos like they're preparing me for battle.

Do they help?

Absolutely.

Right up until I walk through the school gates.

Then every motivational speech, confidence trick, and breathing exercise evaporates from my brain faster than my allowance.

Suddenly I'm back to being...

Me.

Shy.

Awkward.

Professional overthinker.

If overthinking were an Olympic sport, I'd have enough gold medals to bankrupt the medal committee.

Honestly, the videos mostly worked in my bedroom, where nobody could see me except my anxiety... and my long-dead social life sitting in the corner like,

"Girl... we're never recovering from this."

I sighed dramatically.

"This year is going to be different," I announced to absolutely no one.

I paused my video and stood in front of my mirror.

Time to practice.

I pointed at my reflection.

"I don't care what people think about me."

My reflection looked unconvinced.

I cleared my throat.

"I... don't care what people think about me."

Still terrible.

One more time.

"I DON'T-"

My bedroom door flew open so hard it nearly came off its hinges.

I nearly swallowed my own heartbeat.

"Seriously?" I groaned.

My older sister walked in like knocking was merely a suggestion.

Calling my sister pretty would be like calling the ocean "a little wet."