Years later, a former classmate who once sat beside me came in to interview for her dream job. She didn’t recognize me — and carried the same snobbish attitude as back then: judging eyes, belittling tone. She even gave a little laugh, “Hopefully you have enough authority to send my file to your higher-ups.” I opened my laptop, pulled up the hiring dashboard, and said calmly, “No need. I’m the one who decides… who gets hired.” Her face drained of color on the spot.

Years later, a former classmate who once sat beside me came in to interview for her dream job. She didn’t recognize me — and carried the same snobbish attitude as back then: judging eyes, belittling tone. She even gave a little laugh, “Hopefully you have enough authority to send my file to your higher-ups.” I opened my laptop, pulled up the hiring dashboard, and said calmly, “No need. I’m the one who decides… who gets hired.” Her face drained of color on the spot.

Alexandra Hayes had never forgotten the way high school shaped her— not because of the lessons or the exams, but because of the people. And among those people, no one stood out more sharply than Samantha Cole, the girl who once sat beside her in eleventh grade. Back then, Samantha had been effortlessly popular: glossy hair, perfect scores, a perfect family—at least on the outside— and a personality polished by privilege. She didn’t bully with fists; she used smirks, whispers, and that condescending tone that sliced deeper than anything physical.

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