Beatrice was a girl everyone in school knew.
Not because she was particularly beautiful, not because she had any special talent or shone in the spotlight. She didn't sing, she didn't act, and she wasn't top of the class. In truth, she barely spoke unless she had to. But still, everyone knew her name.
They knew her because her breasts were too big for a sixteen-year-old.
That was all it took.
She didn't ask for attention. She didn't try to be noticed. But wherever she went, eyes followed—curious, envious, mocking, longing. Her school blouse, part of the standard uniform, looked different on her.
The fabric clung too tightly across her chest, the buttons pulling ever so slightly, as though the shirt itself struggled to keep up with her body. Even when she tried to hide it—by wearing her bag across her front or keeping her arms folded—people still stared, as if it didn't matter how small she tried to make herself.
It was something that started when she was young: boys' eyes, adult men's eyes. She knew what those eyes were, where they were looking, what they were thinking.
She grew tired of it, and the girls… She didn't have any friends.
It was lonely, and she was known as the "big booba girl" at school.
She felt embarrassed, angry, and humiliated. She didn't understand what she should do.
When she was thinking of not going to school anymore, of just staying at home all day, she met a boy. He was the same as everyone else, looking at her breasts, but he was different.
He did look at her breasts, but he also looked at her. Since he sat beside her in class, he talked to her, and while talking, he didn't look at her breasts. He was really talking to her, showing his interest in her and understanding her.
From that point on, Beatrice found school an enjoyable place, and pretty soon, she was in love with this boy.
She knew that he didn't love her.
How did she know? Well, it was because when she invited him to her place, he didn't respond the way she'd hoped.
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Beatrice's bedroom was small. The walls were lined with bookshelves, mystery novels stacked in neat rows. A single candle flickered on her desk, filling the air with a faint vanilla scent that clung to the soft light.
Her bed was simple, the white sheets crisp, the pillow slightly dented. A window let in the late afternoon sun, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor, where her schoolbag lay discarded.
She stood by her desk, her school uniform still on, the white blouse stretched tight across her chest, the black skirt grazing her knees. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, the waves catching the sunlight, her bangs brushing the rims of her round glasses. Her hands fidgeted, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt, her heart pounding so loud it seemed to echo in the room. Her wide brown eyes darted nervously, her cheeks flushed with heat.
Zane sat on the edge of her bed, his school uniform loose and wrinkled, the tie slung carelessly around his neck. He looked comfortable, his messy brown hair falling over his forehead, his hazel eyes warm.
"Nice setup," he said, nodding at the bookshelves. "You weren't kidding about the mystery obsession. Got any new ones I should borrow?"
Beatrice barely heard him. Her throat was tight, her pulse racing. She'd invited him here, told herself it was just to talk, to hang out like always.
But the truth burned inside her, a desperate need she couldn't ignore. She loved him. She'd loved him since the first time he'd looked at her face instead of her chest, since he'd sat with her in the cafeteria and laughed like she was someone worth knowing. And now, standing in her room, she couldn't hold it back anymore.
"Zane," she said, her voice trembling, sharp with nerves. "I need to tell you something."
He looked up, his grin softening. "What's up?"
She swallowed, her hands shaking so hard she clenched them into fists. "I like you," she blurted, her face burning red. "Like… a lot. I love you. Do you… want to go out with me?"
The room went still. The candle's flame flickered, the vanilla scent suddenly too sweet. Zane's smile faded. He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, and for a moment, he just looked at her.
"Beatrice," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "you're awesome. Really. But I don't feel that way about you. I'm sorry."
The words hit like a slap, sharp and stinging. Her chest tightened, her breath catching. She'd known this might happen, but hearing it, feeling the rejection sink into her bones, was worse than she'd imagined. Her eyes stung, her glasses fogging slightly, but she refused to cry. Not yet.
Instead, she did something desperate, something she hadn't planned but couldn't stop.
Her hands moved to her blouse, fingers fumbling with the buttons. One by one, they came undone, the fabric parting to reveal the plain white bra underneath. Her breaths were shallow, her face burning, but she didn't stop.
She reached behind her, unhooking the bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her bare breasts were exposed, full and heavy, the pink nipples hardening in the cool air. The sunlight caught her skin, making it glow, her curves impossible to ignore.
Zane's eyes widened, his face flushing red. He stared at her breasts, his gaze locked for a moment, his breath hitching. Then he blinked, shaking his head, his voice sharp with shock. "Beatrice, what are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Her hands trembled, but she was already too far gone. She stepped forward, her16her glasses slipping down her nose, and tugged at her skirt, letting it drop to the floor. Her socks came next, then her underwear, until she stood completely naked in the middle of her room.
Her body was a vision—full breasts, a slim waist, rounded hips, and long legs that seemed to glow in the golden light. Her black hair fell in waves over her shoulders, framing her bare skin, the strands brushing against her collarbone. Her skin was smooth, pale, with a faint flush of embarrassment creeping down her chest. Her brown eyes were wide behind her glasses, her lips parted as she fought to keep her voice steady.
"I love you, Zane," she said, her voice raw, shaking with emotion. "I want to be with you. It's okay if you don't love me back. You can have me—my body, anything you want. You can leave me whenever you want, I don't care. Just… keep being my friend. Please." Her face burned, the words spilling out, embarrassing but unstoppable. "I'll be your sex friend if I can't be your girlfriend. I just want you."
Zane stared, his eyes tracing her body—her breasts, her hips, the soft curve of her stomach. His face was red, his hands clenched on his knees, and for a moment, she saw it: the way his breath quickened, the flicker of arousal in his eyes. He was a boy, and she was beautiful, her nakedness overwhelming in the small, quiet room. But then he closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, his jaw tight as he forced himself to look away.
"Beatrice, stop," he said, his voice low, strained. "This… it's not right. It'd be meaningless. It'd just hurt you—hurt us both. I don't want that." He opened his eyes, meeting hers, his gaze steady despite the flush on his cheeks. "I like what we have. Our friendship. Talking, laughing, going to movies, holding hands sometimes. We share everything, stay up late texting. Isn't that enough? Aren't we already doing everything a boyfriend and girlfriend do, just… without the kissing and sex?"
Beatrice's heart twisted, her nakedness suddenly feeling too exposed. She wanted to cover herself, to hide, but she stood frozen, her glasses fogging with tears. "But I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I want more."
Zane ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping. "You're my best friend, Beatrice," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You're amazing, and you deserve someone who loves you for real. I don't love you like that because… I love someone else. And honestly? I don't think I'm worthy of you. You're too special for someone like me."
Her breath caught, the words sinking in, both painful and warm. She adjusted her glasses, her hands trembling, her naked body still bare in the sunlight. "Who do you love?" she asked, her voice small, almost a whisper.
Zane scratched his ear, his face turning redder, his grin sheepish but honest. "It's… my younger sister, Aubrey," he said, his voice quiet, almost embarrassed. "I know it's weird, but I can't help it."
Zane, for the first time, told someone what he had been hiding in his heart for two months.