Once I managed to get back on my feet, I snapped my head around so hard it nearly came off, turning to face the culprit.
…Short.
The little bastard who had come charging in and knocked me over finally looked up, scrunching his face as if he were in unbearable pain despite being the one who ran into me and landed on top of someone else.
He was short.
Short in a way that was… exactly the same as me.
His skin was fair with a rosy tint rich-kid fair.
Like, ridiculously fair.
So fair that his elbows and knuckles were tinted pink.
Damn it.
Does his family run a glutathione factory or something?!
His fluffy hair, soft like spun sugar, gave off a sweet scent like some kind of dessert.
Small hands lifted to brush his bangs aside as he looked up at his opponent—me—standing there with hands on my hips, glaring daggers at him.
Big, round eyes sparkling behind decorative circle lenses with glittery rims.
A pert little nose.
Small lips coated in clear pink gloss.
Moé as hell.
Unbelievable. In the Automotive Engineering faculty of all places, there's another damn poodle same breed just as small as me. I know because of the faculty badge and that shop jacket he's wearing Wait…?
Why the hell does his jacket fit him perfectly?
No not just fit.
It's so short it's basically a crop top. The moment he lifts his arms, the hem rides up and shows his pale belly.
I end up glancing down at my own jacket, which is long enough to almost cover my knees, and somehow that pisses me off even more because he looks better in his.
"Hey! Why'd you cut in front of me like that? Can't you see someone's running here?"
No way I'm letting this slide.
With the pride of a market-mouthed snack vendor's kid same single beauty mole as my mom, like Marilyn Monroe this calls for a verbal throwdown.
"…Didn't see you. I was in a hurry too. Who'd have thought there'd be something so short crawling along the ground? Normally everyone here's tall, so I didn't bother looking down."
That white-bag-carrying mutt stands up, pulls out a wet wipe to clean his hands, chin up, neck stiff talking like I'm ant-sized and he's standing on top of a damn palm tree.
I'm a person, not a dog.
And the way he daintily pinches that paper bag he's holding seriously makes me want to kick him.
Calling others short when he should take a look at himself first.
If you were taller than a sea almond tree, then you could look down on people.
But this? When we stand side by side, we're the exact same height.
So what!
you think you're tall now or what?!
"Who are you calling short, huh? You're acting like you're skyscraper-tall or something. Maybe open your damn eyes and look at yourself first. You were the one in the wrong, didn't even apologize, and now you're yapping nonstop."
"My condition is leagues better than yours, thank you very much. Just look at what you're wearing too long, wrinkled, and your makeup has zero class. Pale face, red lips like a geisha? That trend died three eras ago. Didn't you get the memo?"
"So now you're calling me outdated, you little shorty?!"
The anger that had already been simmering from seeing my mom's desserts ruined finally boiled over. As seen, the one who had crashed into me was now pouring gasoline on the fire tilting their chin up, giving me a look from the corner of their eye, scanning me head to toe, rolling their eyes up and down with that unbearably smug expression.
I could let the dessert thing slide for now but being called short? That was unforgivable.
Thinking your sharp tongue could win against a market vendor's kid? Try me.
Before I could even open my mouth, another jab landed like stabbing an old wound on purpose. Normally, I never cared what anyone said. But some people just knew how to drag it out and slap it right in the middle of an intersection, snapping my last thread of patience clean in half.
"Ugh, you don't even smell nice. No accessories, outdated bag so low-class."
It was like someone had copy-pasted a soap-opera villain straight into their body. Cute and sweet on the outside, but the moment they met the protagonist, they transformed into a full-blown demon overconfident, smug, and insufferably full of themselves.
That leg-pop pose, the eye-digging glare, the curled lip looking down on others One glance and you could tell: pure spoiled rich-kid energy.
So what if I am?
What about it?!
I planted my hands on my hips and sized them up from head to toe. No matter how high-class you look, you're still short as hell not any taller than me, that's for damn sure.
Small, skinny probably light enough to kick and send flying. And you're studying automotive engineering, of all things. Automotive, for crying out loud. A major that's supposed to be greasy, oily, and covered in engine grime.
But here you are, hair styled fluffy like spun sugar, looking like a damn lollipop, carrying a fifty-thousand-baht handbag, drenched in perfume so strong it makes people choke, makeup caked on like you're about to perform Chinese opera.
Did you enroll in the wrong faculty, or are you just completely misunderstanding life?
"So what if I'm low-class? Did it hit your head or something, you little shorty?" I snapped. "First day of term and you show up with a full face and styled hair like this are you here to study or to hunt for a husband, huh, you skank?"
Might as well go all out. Gotta live up to my reputation as Yai Tim's kid the legendary Thai dessert vendor with the sharpest mouth in town.
"Vulgar. Crude. Utterly uneducated," they hissed, biting their lip, fists clenched like that was supposed to look cute. Who are you fooling? Pick the wrong person to mess with, sweetheart I'll roast you until you forget your way back to the dorm.
"I'm studying at the same damn university as you," I shot back. "Calling other people low so where exactly did you crawl down from to think you're that superior, huh? You're short, delusional, and way too damn full of yourself. Someone like you needs to get your hair yanked."
I've always been quick with my hands. Not only good at grabbing guys by the junk I'm pretty skilled at smashing heads too.
"Hey! You market-mouth trash get your filthy hands off my hair!"
The so-called rich kid tried to keep their image together, wriggling just enough, but those flashy gel-polished nails dug deep into my arm, burning like hell.
"Quit digging your ugly-ass claws into my arm, you fake-cute midget!"
"Then let go first! Do you know how many hours it took me to get my hair and nails done? Get your dirty hands off my head! You'll ruin the style let gooo!"
"Ow—! OWW—!"
Thump! Smack! Thud! Smack! Crash!
Two small, skinny bodies in matching red shop jackets grappled and shoved each other right in the middle of the basketball court, having cut across it to reach their faculty building faster.
From crowds bustling on the first day of class, everything came to a standstill freshmen freezing to watch two new students pulling hair and throwing punches in the middle of the court, like an unexpected commercial break.
They rolled around on the ground near the pile of fallen desserts, hair messy, clothes wrinkled and dusty, completely tangled together. Seeing that, each of them grabbed whatever sweets they could reach and smashed them straight into the other's face and head.
Splaat!
"Kyaaaa! You little short bastard!!"
"What's going on here students?! Hey! You two! What are you doing? Stop this right now!!"
…
.