At our 10-year reunion, my high school bully strutted up, dumped wine down my dress, and sneered, “Look, everyone—the Roach Girl is still a loser.” Laughter spread through the room. I just stood there, silent. Then the doors slammed open. Her husband stormed in, face twisted with rage. “Where is she? She stole $200.000—that designer bag she’s flaunting is fake.” The room went de/ad silent.

I still don’t know what made me go. The 10-year high school reunion invite sat in my inbox for weeks, a digital ghost I kept opening and closing. Why go back there? Fort Collins High. The place where I perfected the art of invisibility, where being ignored was a good day. Where she reigned. Trina.

But something pulled at me. Maybe proving I survived? Maybe closure? Maybe just morbid curiosity. So, I clicked RSVP. Yes. One night only. What could possibly go wrong?