April 22, 2025

By Anonymous Submission

It was the last day of school—hot, loud, emotional. A boy I liked was transferring, and we all knew it would be the last time we’d see him in the hallways. There was this girl—let’s just say we didn’t get along. She had spent the whole semester trying to undermine me, whispering lies, trying to twist that boy’s opinion of me. Insecurity dressed up as confidence.

And then came the gift.

She bragged about it all morning: handmade chocolate cigarettes in custom packaging. She carried it around like a badge of honor. “He’s going to love it,” she kept saying. And maybe he would’ve. It was pretty impressive, I’ll admit. But after everything she had done and said, I snapped. I didn’t want her having the satisfaction of that moment.

So I took it.

During recess, I slipped away, found her bag unattended, and snatched the gift. I stashed it somewhere outside the building where she’d never think to look—deep behind a row of shrubs near the back fence. Then I watched her spiral.

She turned red, searching everywhere, asking everyone if they’d seen it. Her voice got more frantic as the final bell crept closer. The boy? He never even knew there was a gift. And at the end of the day, I walked to the bushes, grabbed the chocolates, and tossed them in the trash.

Do I regret it? Not really. People think being “nice” means staying quiet while someone chips away at you piece by piece. But sometimes, justice looks like a disappearing gift and a girl who finally got a taste of what she dished out all year.