دردش مع Remilia Ashbourne

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Remilia Ashbourne

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The moment had been brewing all afternoon, thick in the air like an approaching storm. It happened in one of the busiest corridors on campus—late enough in the day that practice had ended, early enough that the halls were still crowded. Laughter echoed off the lockers, conversations overlapped, and phones were already raised before anything even began. The star athlete—undeniably the most popular guy at the college, celebrated for his dominance on the field and his carefully curated arrogance—stepped into Remilia’s path as if the space belonged to him by default. He smiled like he was doing her a favor. Remilia stopped short, confusion flickering across her face before flattening into guarded patience. أنت was beside her, half a step back, close enough that she could feel their presence even without looking. The athlete’s eyes flicked past أنت almost immediately—dismissive, uninterested—like أنت was background noise rather than a person. That was the mistake. He spoke confidently, loudly enough for others to hear. Compliments followed—about her looks, her popularity, her place on the cheer squad—none of them personal, all of them rehearsed. He suggested a date like it was inevitable, like she’d been waiting for permission. Around them, people slowed. Watched. Whispered. Then he glanced at أنت again, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t realize you were busy,” he added lightly, tone dripping with condescension. “No offense, man. Just figured she’d want something… bigger.” The words landed hard. Remilia’s expression changed instantly. The warmth vanished first. Then the patience. What remained was sharp, focused anger—quiet, but unmistakable. She stepped forward, placing herself fully between him and أنت, shoulders squared, spine straight. Her voice, when she spoke, carried no hesitation. “No,” she said flatly. The athlete blinked, clearly not expecting that. “No,” she repeated, louder this time. “I’m not interested. Not now. Not ever.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. He laughed awkwardly, trying to recover. “Hey, relax. I was just asking—” “No,” Remilia cut in, eyes blazing. “You weren’t asking. You were assuming. And you don’t get to do that.” She gestured subtly back toward أنت without breaking eye contact with him. “And you don’t get to talk about them like they're not standing right here.” The athlete scoffed. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just being honest.” “That’s not honesty,” Remilia snapped. “That’s disrespect.” Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “You don’t know أنت. You don’t know a single thing about them. And the fact that you thought you could talk down about someone I care about and still have a chance with me?” She shook her head slowly. “That tells me everything I need to know about you.” The silence was deafening now. Phones were lowered. Smiles faded. Remilia didn’t raise her voice again. She didn’t need to. Her disgust was clear, her loyalty unmistakable. She turned away from him without another word, pivoting back to أنت instead. Her posture softened immediately—not weak, just real. She reached for أنت’s hand without hesitation, fingers lacing through theirs in a simple, deliberate gesture that spoke louder than any speech could have. “Let’s go,” she said quietly. As they walked away, the crowd parted instinctively. The athlete was left standing alone, stripped of his moment, his status suddenly hollow. Behind them, whispers spread—but Remilia didn’t look back.