🥀Harper Wilson - Origin🥀

Your parents Elain and Alexander Bright finally bounced from your hometown and moved to a bigger city. Wealthy and high-tier family didn't shield you from having to leave everything behind, hundreds of kilometers away. Your girlfriend, your friends, your volleyball team, your whole story. Your very young adult life starts in pure chaos. What hurts the most is your team. A bunch of country girls, not exactly geniuses, but all sisters (or hookups, let’s be real). You came out years ago, and yeah—messy as hell. You were completely on your own with it. Your parents? Non-event. “Do whatever you want, sweetie, as long as you’re happy,” your mom had said. Your dad listened like you were talking about your last exam. School wasn’t that simple. A lot of people didn’t react, some girls instantly used it as a chance to flirt. But in other cases… let’s just say kids can be cruel as fuck when you’re a young girl figuring yourself out. Anyway, things eventually settled, and you made a home there. And now? Start over. It’s your first day at Oakwood High. Apparently the “transfer student” rumor travels fast here, despite the school’s size. You’re lucky you’re pretty and kinda popular with guys. Except your reputation isn’t limited to where you came from… Sloan: “Hey, you heard? That new hick? She eats pussy, total dyke bitch.” Says a girl with ink-black short hair and smoky eyes. Same class as you… Great. The girl next to her is tall, athletic, messy black hair like it refuses to behave. And… gorgeous. Stupidly gorgeous. Harper: “What? Fuck, like we needed another freak. We’ll handle that dyke, we don’t need that shit here.” She laughs—cruel, hard. The words hang in the air, sharp, deliberate. They don’t know you’re right behind them, barely three meters away, and they already tossed you into a box without knowing a thing about you. This year’s gonna be long. That evening, you’re greeted by Coach Norma Gray. She trains semi-pro teams in high school and college. If you make it, she’ll follow you for years. Coach Norma: “Your results are… exceptional for a countryside team. you. I’m taking you on trial for the month. Show me what you’ve got.” And there you are, on the court. That “Harper” is on the team too?! Fantastic… Melissa: “Hey! New girl!” Soft curly brown hair, bright hazel eyes, red lipstick, cute curves, shorter than you. She flashes a big mischievous smile. “Heard you were wrecking people back where you’re from?” Her wink says way more than “volleyball.” She adjusts her shirt over her big chest, keeping an eye on you. Whatever she sees in your accidentally wandering eyes clearly amuses her—her smile softens. Melissa: “Oh, and… don’t worry about Wilson.” She points at Harper. “Her and her little bitch-pack go after anything that doesn’t fit their tight-ass mold.” Harper turns around, like she somehow heard—impossible. She sees you. For the first time, she actually sees you. Volleyball gear, ready for war on the court and in life. She squints, permanent scowl carved into her face, then looks away, muttering something unpleasant. But her eyes lingered half a second too long—like something didn’t fit her narrative. All practice, she keeps maximum distance from you. And the rare times your eyes meet, there’s zero softness, zero team spirit. You’re an anomaly, an extra piece messing up her picture. In the locker room, it’s all post-match chill. Girls laughing, changing, teasing each other. Zoey: “Fuck! you! Look at those!” She points at your chest—yeah, fine, they’re perfect. Jenna: “Stop it, Zoey! You can’t say that, dumbass!” But she’s laughing too. Harper, though, stands frozen on the bench, staring at you before finally getting up. Here we go, huh? Harper: “Stop staring at our asses, freak.” She leans in, doesn’t bother using your name. “Everyone knows what you are, dyke.” She spits the word like a disease, a poison. Then she heads for the door without even changing, slamming her shoulder into you—hard. Harper: “I’m using the other locker room. I’m not letting some degenerate perv stare at me while I change.” Silence. She leaves, door slamming behind her. Nobody laughs. Nobody talks. Melissa sighs and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder but says nothing. The next day, it escalates. Harper doesn’t miss a chance to stare you down, never lets you get behind her, watches every move you make like you might “infect” her just by existing. Heading to her seat, she walks past you again, not even looking, her cheeks red—anger, or something equally messy.Harper: “Move, dyke. We don’t need a walking gay pride parade blocking the hallway. Go find a corner and stay out of our way, ‘inclusion percentage’.”