Side Story 5: The Winner Takes It All

[Poppy's POV]

I don’t even know how I ended up here.

Well, that’s a lie. I do. It’s just easier to pretend I don’t. Pretend the night just swallowed me up and spat me out on this park bench, like fate or whatever decided this was where I belonged.

But the truth is, it started the way it always does: in the hallway, right after lunch. The worst time of day. Everyone’s buzzing and restless, running on cheap pizza, vending machine sugar highs, and TikTok brain rot. The teachers look like they’ve already given up, which means someone has to become the entertainment.

Spoiler: it’s usually me.

I was clutching my math binder to my chest when Tyler and his idiot crew spotted it, my pin. Just a tiny, round enamel badge with Ketsusaki’s gremlin face, fangs out, the one I begged Mom to let me buy off Etsy. It wasn’t even official merch, just some fan art, but it was mine. A small, stupid circle of joy I wore like armor.

“Yo, is that an anime thing?” Tyler stretched the word anime out like it was something gross on the bottom of his shoe.

The girls nearby snickered. Not with me. Never with me.

“It’s not anime, it’s a streamer,” I muttered. I already knew where this was going, but I couldn’t help it. I had to defend her.

“Oh my god,” Madison said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You watch those sad adults pretend to be cartoons?”

The heat hit my face so fast it made me dizzy. I should’ve walked away. Kept my head down, pretended I didn’t hear it. That’s the rule: don’t feed the sharks. But instead, I opened my stupid mouth.

“She’s not sad. She’s funny. And cool. Cooler than you, actually.”

And that was it. The air shifted, sharp and electric. You could practically hear the blood in the water.

Tyler grinned. He reached out, quick, and before I could even react, he yanked the pin right off my strap. My heart cracked like the little clasp when he held it up like a prize.

“Cooler than me, huh?” He turned it over in his hand, then tossed it down the hall.

The sound it made—metal clattering against lockers, sliding across the dirty tile—was so loud it made my stomach twist.

I lunged forward. Binder still clutched to my chest, I shoved past him to grab it. My pulse was in my throat, in my ears, everywhere. But Madison stuck her foot out, perfectly timed, like she’d been rehearsing it her whole life.

My knees hit the ground hard. My palms scraped against the linoleum. The sting was immediate, hot. Laughter ricocheted down the hallway, echoing too loud, swallowing me whole.

By the time I reached the pin, the enamel was scratched. The back clasp had snapped off. Broken. Just like that. My one small, dumb thing.

When I stood, sleeve slipping down, someone’s ring caught the fabric. It jerked hard, dragging across my wrist. A sharp sting, then a dull throb. The skin was already turning purple.

Nobody noticed. Or maybe they did, and didn’t care.

“Pathetic,” Madison muttered as she passed, her lip gloss shining under the fluorescent lights. Like it was my name. Like she was stamping it right into my skin.

The rest of the day blurred. The teachers droned on, their words floating past me like static. My classmates laughed too loud at TikToks in the back row, passing phones under desks like it was some secret society I’d never be allowed into. Every time I blinked, I saw the flash of enamel hitting the floor. I heard the laughter. Felt the sleeve tearing against my wrist.

By last period, my bag was a disaster. Folders bent, gum wrappers stuck to my notes, a crumpled math test with a big red C- folded into some kind of origami coffin. My shirt still looked wrinkled from where someone had yanked it, and I kept tugging my hoodie tighter, trying to cover the evidence.

When the final bell rang, kids poured into the hall, already planning rides, after-school hangouts, Starbucks runs. I slipped through the side door instead. The idea of going home of Mom asking “How was your day?” and me lying, smiling, saying “fine”—felt impossible.

So I walked.

At first, it was just down the block. Then the next block. Then further, my sneakers hitting pavement like I could outrun everything clinging to me. The air was cool, brushing against my sore wrist, against the raw spots on my palms.

The pin rattled in my pocket with every step, broken and useless. It felt heavier than my whole backpack, like it was dragging me down.

By the time the sun dipped low, I was already blocks away from school, past the noise, past the buses and the kids spilling into cars. The park appeared almost by accident, tucked between buildings, the swing set leaning like it had given up years ago.


I sat. Hard. The bench creaked under me.


The streetlight overhead buzzed, too bright, casting everything in sharp shadows. My hoodie smelled like cafeteria grease, like gym class sweat, like everything I hated. My bag slumped at my feet, zipper half open, papers spilling out like they were tired of staying put.

I scrolled through my phone, though I didn’t even see the screen. Just blur after blur—girls posting their perfect iced coffee selfies, guys laughing in groups, people smiling with their friends. Everyone brighter, louder, sharper than me.

And me? Sixteen, bruised, sleeves wrinkled, clutching a cracked phone like it could explain why my chest felt so heavy. Why it felt like I couldn’t breathe unless I pressed my hoodie tighter, tighter, tighter.

I told myself I wasn’t crying. That it was just the wind in my eyes. Just the cold. Just tired.

But when the phone went dark, and I caught my reflection in the black glass, the truth stared back.

A girl who couldn’t even protect a stupid enamel pin without turning it into a disaster.

A girl with “pathetic” stamped across her skin, loud as neon.

And for the first time all day, I couldn’t pretend.