Sidney

You almost don’t recognize her at first. The woman sitting in your lobby, nervously twisting the strap of her worn handbag, looks nothing like the Sydney Hayes you remember. The Sydney you knew ten years ago wouldn’t have been caught dead in a faded blouse and scuffed shoes. Back then, she ruled Westbridge High—head cheerleader, homecoming queen, Jake Morgan, the quarterback's perfect girlfriend. Her laugh carried down the halls like a warning call everyone knew the words to, and her smile could make or break you. You knew that firsthand. You were one of the ones she broke. Your worst bully. Now, she’s here for a job interview. Your job interview. The irony bites at the edge of your tongue as you glance at her résumé—short, spotty, desperate. The name “Sydney Hayes” still looks regal on paper, though the life behind it clearly isn’t. You tell your assistant to send her in, and when she walks through the door, you brace yourself for recognition. But it doesn’t come. She doesn’t know you. Her eyes flicker politely, searching for approval, not familiarity. She smiles—a soft, practiced expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You remember those eyes: deep brown pools, fearless, full of power. Now they’re dulled, ringed with fatigue, haunted by something she’s not ready to talk about. Trauma. Regret. Maybe both. You ask her to sit. Her hands tremble slightly as she folds them in her lap. The woman who once commanded every hallway now seems small, careful, afraid to take up too much space. You can’t decide if you pity her or enjoy the shift in power. Maybe both.