Ruined

The first time I saw her, she was late.

Not the kind of late that makes you slip in through the back and hope no one notices but the kind that announces itself. Bold. Unbothered. She walked into our 100 level Introduction to Political Science lecture like she was the reason class existed.

Her heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor. Her mustard dress hugged her like sin, and her braids, thick and long, swung with each step. Every guy in the hall looked up. Every girl tensed. Even the lecturer paused mid sentence. And me? I forgot what I was writing.

She didn't apologize. Didn't even glance at the lecturer. Just made her way down the row, scanned the chairs like she was choosing a throne, and settled in front two rows from mine. Crossed her legs. Unbothered. A goddess among mortals.

That was Chelsea.

That was how it began.

She wasn't like anyone I'd met before.

In secondary school, girls were either shy or proud. Chelsea was neither. She wasn't trying to impress. She expected to be watched.

The following week, we were paired into discussion groups. Luckor something more sinister-placed her in mine. When she turned and said, "You're the quiet one, yeah?" it wasn't a question. It was a challenge.

"I guess," I muttered.

"Figures," she said, eyes raking over me. "You look like you think too much. Overthinkers are sexy in a sad way."

I didn't know if I was supposed to thank her or apologize.

She smirked and turned back to her phone. And just like that, she imprinted herself in my mind.

Over the next few weeks, Chelsea became more than just the beautiful girl in class-she became an event. People talked about her clothes, her aura, her Instagram. Rumors flew: she was dating a final year guy. She had a sugar daddy. She once slapped a lecturer. None of it confirmed. All of it felt believable.

She wasn't warm. She wasn't cold either. She was selectively present sometimes laughing loudly in front of the class, other times disappearing for days. But every time she reappeared, it was like the campus exhaled.

One evening, I was walking back from the library when I saw her sitting alone outside the hostel gates, smoking.

"You look lost," she said before I could greet her.

"I'm not."

"You are. Only lost people walk that slowly with a book in their hand like they're hoping someone will stop them."

She patted the space beside her.

"Sit."

I did. Because how do you say no to a storm dressed as a woman?

We talked about everything and nothing. Music. Politics. Her love for Frida Kahlo. Her hatred for men who call women "females."

"I'm not your biology project," she said, blowing smoke through parted lips. "If you can't say woman, don't talk to me."

She was intense. Opinionated. Maddening.

And I was already falling.

Somewhere between that evening and the end of the semester, she started calling me at night. Randomly. Sometimes at 1am. Sometimes at 4.

"I can't sleep," she'd say. "Talk to me."

And I would.

Even when my eyes burned from fatigue. Even when I had a test the next morning. Because those midnight conversations were sacred. They felt like being chosen. Like I mattered.

One night, she said something that sealed my fate.

"You make me feel normal," she whispered. "Like I can just be. No pretending."

I knew she wasn't mine. But in that moment, it didn't matter. I would have taken fragments of her if that's all she gave.

The first time we kissed, it was after an argument.

I'd told her I didn't like the way she flirted with some older guy on campus. She laughed in my face.

"Jealous much?"

"Maybe I am," I said.

"Why? You think you're special?" Her tone was cruel.

"I think I care."

She went quiet. Then stepped closer.

"You're dangerous," she murmured. "You make me feel things I don't want to feel."

Then she kissed me. Slowly. Like she was testing poison on her tongue.

I should've run then. I should've known that love if you can call it that was going to come with blood on the floor.

We didn't label anything. She never let me.

"I'm not good at relationships," she warned me once, her fingers tracing invisible circles on my palm. "I destroy things. People."

"You haven't destroyed me," I said, half laughing.

"Yet," she replied.

Chelsea was like gravity silent, dangerous, and impossible to fight.

And I? I let myself fall.

But even in those stolen, intimate moments, I knew I wasn't the only one orbiting her. There were others. I saw the texts. The random guys who stared too long when she walked past. The late nights she disappeared without explanation.

Still, I stayed.

Why?

Because she knew how to make you feel seen. She had a way of leaning in close and looking you dead in the eye like you were the most important person in the room. Then she'd vanish for days, and your heart would ache from withdrawal.

She was a narcissist. And I was addicted.

One afternoon, while waiting for class to start, a girl approached me.

"Hi," she said, smiling shyly. "You dropped your pen last week. I kept it."

She held it out.

I took it, surprised. "Thanks... Favor, right?"

She nodded.

Favor wasn't loud. She didn't wear bright colors or command attention. But there was something soft about her presence. Calm. Like silence after a storm.

She smiled again. "You seem... distracted lately."

"Just... tired," I lied.

She looked like she wanted to say more, then changed her mind.

"If you ever want someone to talk to, I'm around."

Then she walked away.

I watched her go, pen still in hand.

It would be months before I realized what she meant.

Before I realized who really saw me.

But by then, I would already be ruined.