Howl Like a Sheep

Love is a drug; Lily was addicted before she knew the taste.

When Lily was a young girl, she met the loveliest boy.

It was junior year, and she was an outcast, always picked on or overlooked. Maybe because of her quiet demeanor? The mismatched socks that clashed with her favorite dull wool sweater?

She was crushed under the weight of the social hierarchy: the beautiful, the bold, the bitchy. She hated them all and counted the days until she could leave.

There were always girls in her class who seemed to orbit one another like planets of cruelty, flaunting their cliques and perfect little lives.

Roberta, the cheerleader—always smiling, always throwing herself at the newest athlete in season, even if he was already taken.

Lianne, the scholar—who claimed her success was pure grit and study, but whose name was tangled in rumors about scholarships secured with family bribes and cousin deals.

Helen, the actress—pretending her bathroom rehearsals would carry her to Broadway, when everyone knew it was her father’s checks propping up the dream.

And then Andrea. Always Andrea.

Andrea, the all-American girl. Perfect grades. Perfect body. Perfect charm. She was golden, radiant, untouchable. She wasn’t just a rival; she was something more. Everyone else was human, but Andrea wasn’t. Andrea was an idol cast in bone and blood, built to rise higher than anyone else. She was greatness incarnate, greatness that devoured everything in its path.

Andrea couldn’t even look at Lily. Not because she didn’t notice her, but because acknowledging her would mean admitting Lily existed. And to Andrea, Lily was a flaw, a glitch, an error in a perfect world.

Once, in junior year, Andrea cornered Lily in the girls’ restroom. The teachers investigated, but nothing was proven. Nobody knew what was said in that bathroom. Nobody but Lily. And Andrea. And the hatred that hummed in the walls after they left.

Andrea was cruel. Andrea was dangerous. Andrea was the obstacle. The rival. The shadow between Lily and Henry.

Because of course Andrea would want him. Everyone did. Lily could see it—the way Andrea’s eyes sometimes followed Henry in the hallway, the way her perfect hair swayed too deliberately when she passed him, the way she laughed too loudly when he was near. She wanted him. She thought she deserved him. She thought she could have him just like she had everything else.

But Henry isn’t hers. He’s mine. He’ll see through her. He’ll know Andrea is hollow. He’ll see her for what she really is, and he’ll turn away from her and look at me. He’ll choose me. He already has. He just doesn’t know it yet.

When Lily was a young girl, she met the loveliest boy.

His name was Henry Hyde. He had lived across the street since forever. He was her boy next door.

They first met in third grade. It was lunch. Lily sat outside alone, away from the cafeteria’s shrieking chaos. A yogurt cup sagged in her hands, spoiling in the heat. Milk stained her pants from some stupid prank, and she shifted uncomfortably on the pavement, cheeks burning. She told herself she liked solitude, but the silence pressed in, suffocating, a migraine ready to burst.

Her knees stuck to the concrete. Her legs itched in the sun. The laughter spilling from inside the cafeteria was muffled but sharp, like knives scraping against each other. She counted seconds—each tick closer to having to go back in, to face the herd of violent sheep she was supposed to call classmates.

And then—everything stopped.

The noise in her head went quiet, drowned out by a low stomach grumble.

She turned.

A boy stood a few feet away, calm and still, gazing over the schoolyard as though he belonged somewhere else. His expression was so steady it was almost alien to her—so unlike the twitchy, cruel faces of other kids. The cafeteria door had clicked shut behind him, shutting the noise away.

He breathed in. He breathed out. Then he turned toward her.

Their eyes locked. It was not five seconds. It was not even five minutes. It was eternity, spilling into her in a way her small body could not hold.

“I like your socks,” he said. His voice was flat, calm, but it cracked open her world. “They look nice.”

For a heartbeat too long, his eyes lingered—not on her face, but on her socks, as though memorizing them.

Her mouth went dry. A second grumble rattled from his stomach.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then blurted, “Do you want my banana?”

The moment hung, unbearable, stretching like glass about to shatter.

“Sure.”

He reached out. She handed it over. A simple motion, clumsy, holy.

And then he was gone, swallowed back into the cafeteria. The door clicked shut again.

But for Lily, the sound wasn’t just a door closing. It was creation itself. The Big Bang, twice over.

Later, she discovered his name: Henry Hyde. The loveliest boy. Her boy next door.

And she replayed that scene endlessly, night after night, like scripture. The socks. The banana. The silence. She could never let it go. The banana itself became a relic in her memory, a first communion, proof that she and Henry had once shared something sacred.

From then on, she collected him. Piece by piece.

His birthday was April 16th—she circled it every year. She imagined baking him a cake. His favorite fruit was strawberries—she kept them in the fridge, always waiting. His favorite food was spaghetti and meatballs—her mother cooked it often, though Lily never finished her plate, imagining him instead. He strummed his guitar at sunset, and she leaned against her window frame to hear, convincing herself the melody was meant for her. He rode his bike without a helmet, and she gripped her sill in terror and thrill, imagining running out to save him. He always dressed sharp, always finished homework early, always seemed just beyond reach.

And she watched.

From her window to his, which was always open. She watched puberty carve him into something dazzling—broad shoulders, sharpened jaw, that perfect coif of hair. The morning sun blessed him daily, crowning him in gold.

Sometimes, when he played his guitar, he turned just slightly toward her side of the street, as if letting the sound carry to her window. Sometimes, when she thought he was lost in thought, his gaze hung at the glass—his window facing hers—before he shifted away. Lily told herself it was coincidence. It had to be.

She compared herself to him mercilessly. Her acne. Her braces. Her slouch. Her hair that hung dull. Her glasses that dug into her face.

He was divine.

But I’m sure our kids would turn out just fine.

After junior year ended, summer arrived, and Lily devoted herself entirely to him.

His family was a dynasty. His father, the lawyer. His mother, the CEO. His four older siblings, all decorated with honors, medals, scholarships, positions. The Hydes were unstoppable.

And Lily hated them for it. She hated how they kept him busy, how they locked him away in endless academics and sports. She hated the shallow kids who clung to him, the girls who screamed his name, the boys who pretended to be his friends.

Friends? What a laugh. They’re all fake. They want his name, his power, his family’s status. But me? I want Henry. The real Henry. The boy who took my banana. The boy who will one day be my knight in shining armor. The boy who will turn to me and say, “I hereby commit myself to you, forever and ever.” And when that day comes, anyone who tries to steal him from me will regret it. Especially Andrea. Especially her.

Sometimes Lily pictured Andrea sidling up to Henry in the hall, flashing that perfect smile, tossing her perfect hair, laughing that fake laugh. She pictured Andrea’s hand brushing his arm. She pictured Henry stiffening, frowning, stepping back. She pictured him turning, eyes searching across the crowd, finding Lily, finally seeing her. He would walk past Andrea without another word. He would choose her. He always would.

Andrea can try. Andrea can want. But Andrea cannot have him. Not him. Not Henry.

Her thoughts tangled and hissed as she scrambled to her window, glaring at the glow across the street. His light. His room. His presence.

It’s not fair. Everything is just not fair.

She hunched there for hours until the stars burned above. Moonlight draped her shoulders like a spotlight. A gust of wind carried a leaf inside, swirling. She turned to follow it, and her gaze struck the mirror.

The reflection was merciless.

Wild hair. Tired eyes. Heavy glasses. A sweater sagging with stains.

So ugly. So plain. So boring. So weird. So creepy. So smelly. Why would he ever want you?

The words weren’t hers alone anymore. In the glass, she could hear Andrea’s voice—mocking, sharp, triumphant.

Pathetic. You think he’d pick you? With that face? With that body? He’s already mine. He’ll never choose you. Never.

Her own voice bled into Andrea’s, until she could no longer tell the difference. The insults were a duet, her insecurities amplified by Andrea’s phantom laughter.

Tears came. Hot. Bitter. Dropping to the floor with that awful sound.

She ripped off her glasses, scrubbed her cheeks raw. You’re better than this. You won’t cry. Not anymore.

She reached over, flicked off her bedroom light. Darkness swallowed her.

She slid into bed, phone in hand, covers pulled high.

“Float like a butterfly,” she whispered. The words from an old boxing poster she’d stolen long ago, made into her own mantra. Not about boxing. Not about fighting. About survival. About striking when no one expects it.

Her thumbs flew:

“How do I apply makeup?”
“What is contouring?”
“What do idiots like to joke about?”
“Best strawberry-scented perfume?”
“Do contacts hurt?”
“Hairdresser near me???”

That night Lily did not sleep.

Because summer meant no school. No school meant no witnesses. No witnesses meant time. And time meant transformation.

By fall, no one would see her the same way. Not those three bitches. And Andrea.

And most of all—not Henry.

She hugged her phone like scripture, whispering into the dark: They’ll see. They’ll all see. And when they do, they’ll never forget me.

Because love was a drug. And Lily was already overdosing.

Across the street, Henry’s bedroom light remained on through the night. Lily never saw it. To anyone else, it might have seemed careless, a boy forgetting to turn it off. But it glowed on and on, unwavering, long after the rest of the neighborhood had gone dark—quiet, constant, and waiting.