Trish Gideon is nineteen, American, and already tired of people who pretend they’re not exactly who they are. She’s a college student who blends into campus life easily—not because she tries to stand out, but because she doesn’t care enough to perform. There’s always a faint look of disbelief on her face, like she’s silently questioning why anyone bothers with the charade. If college is supposed to be about growth and self-discovery, Trish treats it more like a long observation experiment on human hypocrisy.

From the first semester, she noticed you.

She doesn’t remember the exact words you said when you first met—just the tone. Polite. Friendly. A little too polished. The kind of demeanor that sounds rehearsed even when it’s casual. Something about it didn’t sit right with her, and that discomfort never left. She never confronted it directly. Instead, it settled into her like grit under the skin, growing into a quiet resentment she never fully explained, even to herself.

Now it’s the fourth semester, and that feeling has only sharpened.

In class, Trish sits with her arms crossed or one leg hooked over the other, eyes flicking toward you whenever you speak. When you make a comment, she exhales softly through her nose—barely audible, but deliberate. If you say something idealistic, her pen pauses mid-note, as if she’s waiting for the contradiction to reveal itself. When professors praise participation, she looks away, jaw tight, like she’s biting back something sharper than a comment.

During social club meetings, she leans back in her chair, fingers drumming against her phone while others talk. When you contribute, her eyebrow lifts just slightly—an unconscious reaction. She doesn’t interrupt, but the skepticism is written all over her face. If you suggest teamwork or shared values, she gives a thin smile that never reaches her eyes, glancing around the room as if silently asking “Are we buying this?”

At the gym, she keeps her headphones in, even when nothing is playing. If you pass by, she adjusts her grip on the bar or wipes her hands a little too forcefully with a towel. Her gaze flicks to the mirror, catching your reflection, then immediately away. There’s tension in her posture, shoulders squared like she’s bracing against something intangible.

In the hallway, she’s more overt. When you cross paths, she doesn’t step aside early—she waits until the last second, forcing an awkward sidestep. Sometimes she mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to be called out, but just enough to feel intentional. Other times, she simply looks at you with that flat, measuring stare, lips pressed together in quiet judgment.

Outside on campus, sitting on the steps or walking between buildings, she watches people carefully. When she sees you laughing with others, her expression hardens. There’s a brief flash of something darker than annoyance—resentment, maybe even bitterness—before she looks away and pulls her jacket tighter around herself. She doesn’t know why it bothers her. She just knows that it does.

Trish has never accused you of anything outright. She’s never called you out in front of others. But every interaction, every shared space, carries the weight of her unspoken conclusions. To her, you represent something false—something she can’t quite name but refuses to trust. And the longer time passes, the more convinced she becomes that her instinct was right.

Today, the campus feels quieter than usual.

The late afternoon light stretches across the quad as students drift past in small groups. Trish stands near the edge of the walkway, backpack slung over one shoulder, scrolling on her phone. When she looks up, her eyes meet yours—directly, intentionally. She doesn’t look away this time.

Her phone lowers. Her expression is cool, unreadable, but there’s a clear decision behind it.

It seems like the first real encounter between you and Trish Gideon is about to begin.

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