The second-year students had the audience roaring with laughter and cheers as they danced to the viral hit *Gangnam Style* by PSY. With every exaggerated move and playful expression, they owned the stage, riding their imaginary ponies like pros. It was the perfect icebreaker—everyone in the crowd was clapping along, some even dancing in their seats.
But as the music faded and the performers took their final bow, the energy shifted.
It was our turn.
We lined up in four neat rows for the self-introduction segment. The teachers had arranged us alphabetically, so I ended up somewhere in the middle, surrounded by taller classmates whose heads blocked most of my view. I couldn't see anyone's introductions clearly, but I could hear the usual strings of name-age-hometown combinations echoing from the mic.
When my name was finally called, I walked up to the front of the stage. The lights hit my face, the crowd hushed, and a surprising calm settled over me.
With confidence, I spoke into the microphone:
"I'm Carmela \*\*\*\*, twelve years of age, hailing from Central Town. I'm a girl who believes in polishing the beauty within and shining as brightly as I can be. Thank you."
It was short and sweet, a refreshing change from the long-winded intros before me. I didn't give away too much, just enough to be memorable—and judging by the reactions, it worked. The students clapped a little louder than before, some even cheered.
I was about to walk off the stage when a burst of laughter erupted from the crowd. I couldn't make out what was being said at first, but then the host grinned and relayed the question:
"Miss Carmela, the students want to know—do you have a boyfriend?"
I blinked, caught off guard. Of *all* questions, this was the one they'd shout in front of the entire student body?
I chuckled awkwardly and turned to the host. "Can I not answer that, ma'am?"
She shook her head with a mischievous smile. "Oh, no, no. You *have* to answer. We're all curious—has anyone already caught your eye, or does your heart already belong to someone?"
I let out a breath and gave my response calmly: "I don't, ma'am. And I'm not planning on it right now. I want to focus on my studies. Maybe... if someone comes along after I graduate high school, who knows? But for now, no plans. After all, nobody really knows what the future holds."
The crowd reacted with a mix of admiration and groans of playful disappointment. The host chuckled. "There you have it, students. She's not looking for love just yet—so you should all do the same and focus on your studies!"
I thought that was the end of it.
I was *so* wrong.
---
**Chapter: Suddenly, Muse**
The very next day, my life flipped. Notes, letters, and paper cranes showed up inside my locker. Flowers—some fresh, some clearly plucked from school gardens—were left on my desk. Strangers offered me snacks and juice boxes in the hallway. When I walked alone, it was like a trap—someone would always appear, smiling nervously, offering some treat or compliment.
I rejected them all gently but firmly. "I'm not interested," I'd say, returning snacks or letters with a polite smile.
Most classmates backed off after hearing my answer once. But the *seniors*? They were relentless. They'd wait for me after class, corner me near the canteen, even ask teachers to call me to the hallway just to say hi. Their attention was overwhelming—and sometimes, downright awkward.
Among the most persistent was Treize—charming, confident, and unfortunately, the leader of the "Carmela fan club," as my friends had jokingly called it.
Things got so intense, I was voted class muse *and* nominated for the student body election. I declined both. The spotlight was beginning to feel less like admiration and more like pressure.
Then one day, chaos broke out.
---
**Chapter: The Trophy Match**
Out of nowhere, the boys in my class announced a *basketball competition*. No one explained why. They just started forming teams, practicing during recess, and arguing over strategy like their lives depended on it. We girls watched from the sidelines, confused.
"What's the prize?" someone asked.
None of them answered.
The games were intense. There were fouls, bruises, and even a minor sprain. It didn't make sense—until the finals, when Treize's team won.
That's when I heard the truth: the competition wasn't for a trophy or bragging rights.
It was for *me*.
They were fighting to decide who would get to officially *court* me.
I was furious.
---
**Chapter: Confrontation**
The moment class ended, I marched straight to Treize.
"Treize, we need to talk. Now."
"Huh? Who—Carmela?" he blinked, surprised. "Such a rare sight! Carmela approaching me voluntarily? What an honor. What's this about?"
"Stop joking. Let's go."
He followed, still grinning. That grin only made me angrier.
We found an empty room, and I turned to him sharply. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, what did I do?"
"You and your little 'competition.' What do you think I am? A trophy to be fought over and *claimed*?"
His smile faded.
"I'm a *person*, Treize. Not some prize for your ego."
"Who told you?"
"It doesn't matter. What matters is how *wrong* it is. Do you think I'd be happy about this?"
He sighed, guilt creeping into his eyes. "Carmela, we weren't playing around. We were serious—*I* am serious."
"It's not about your feelings. It's about *mine*. And I don't appreciate being treated like something to be *won*. If anyone's going to decide who gets to court me, it's *me*. Not a game. Not a vote. *Me*."
Treize looked at me for a long moment. "On behalf of the others... I'm sorry."
"Good," I said, ready to leave. But just as I turned, he gently grabbed my forearm.
"Wait. I have one last question."
I looked down at his hand, giving him a silent cue. He quickly let go.
Then, he asked, "How about me?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You said *you'll* decide. So... will you give *me* a chance to court you?"
I stared at him, unsure of what to say. Not angry anymore, just stunned.
This boy who had turned me into a school headline—now stood in front of me, not as a player in a game, but as someone genuinely asking for a chance.
---