W1SHES (Chapter 1) (Fake Blog)

Chapter 1: Stardust and Secrets

Logged: WILLOW_W1SHES —

If anyone ever finds this blog, I’m moving to a cabin in the woods and pretending the internet never happened.

Okay, fine — dramatic. I’m dramatic, not extinct.

But seriously — if a single soul even sniffed that Willow, queen of public opinion, has a private blog called W1SHES where she writes about her love for ancient Earth bands and emotionally devastating late-night indie shows, it’s over for me. My reign? Kaput. My carefully curated image? Dismantled like a busted stereo from a yard sale.

So let’s keep this between me, my laptop, and the hum of my dial-up modem.

You know what sucks about being popular?

Everything.

Don’t get me wrong — being seen has perks. People part when I walk through a crowd like I’m royalty. My closet is stocked with mall brand drops. Even strangers let me get away with sarcasm so sharp it could cut through a scratched CD.

But it’s not me. Not really.

The real me?

Wears vintage band tees under my jacket (today’s was Green Day — tucked in so no one sees).

Secretly watches late-night horror marathons on cable, even if it’s the same movie for the tenth time.

Thinks mean-girl energy is exhausting and, honestly, kind of gross.

And has a ridiculous, embarrassing, completely illogical crush on the one guy who couldn’t be further from my glitter-soaked orbit:

Simon.

Yes. That Simon.

The boy with ink-stained fingertips from fixing cassette decks, always hunched over a beat-up music modulator in the back corner of the library. The boy who wears oversized Sony headphones like armor and probably thinks I’m a shallow airhead. The boy who’s been building a hand-wired guitar out of spare parts from his dad’s garage and hums obscure tunes like Radiohead like it’s a prayer.

I know. I know. It makes zero sense.

He’s quiet. Awkward. Wears the same black jacket every day like it’s coded into his DNA. He has exactly three friends (and one of them might live in a basement and build weird websites). Meanwhile, I run the most-followed blog on MySpace.

But the thing is… he’s real.

And I’m tired of pretending I’m not.

Today, during a discussion about whether Bach or Bowie wrote better hooks, he actually looked up — like, for real — when I answered. His brow crinkled, just a little, like he didn’t expect me to know the difference between a fugue and a breakdown.

I smirked. Not the cute kind. The popular-girl kind. The one I’d been practicing in the mirror for ages.

He looked away.

I wanted to scream into my pillow and mess up my perfectly coiffed hair.

Instead, I made a snarky comment about how classical music was just “old-school background noise” and laughed when my friends joined in.

Fake. Every second of it.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.

Pretending I’m the person everyone wants me to be — when really, all I want is to sit in a soundproof shed with Simon, listening to his weird mix CDs and pretending I’m not in the middle of a slow-burn identity crisis.

Anyway. That’s all for tonight.

If you’re out there, maybe orbiting the same emotional galaxy as me, just know:
You’re not alone.
And being weird is kind of beautiful.
Even if you have to hide it behind lip gloss and a perfectly timed laugh.

— WILLOW XX