Chapter 3: Main Character Syndrome

I look away with a scoff and start chatting with my roommates like nothing happened.

In my last life, they stood up for me too, but I was too stubborn to explain myself, which just made things worse. Now I get it: as guys, we’ve got to look out for each other. When you’re up against someone as shameless as Natalie, you have to stand your ground.

After class at noon, everyone floods the dining hall in packs, worried all the good food will be gone. The main quad buzzes with students—some tossing frisbees, others glued to their phones. My stomach growls as we head for the dining hall, the smell of pizza and curly fries wafting through the doors.

My roommates and I are planning to eat out, so we head toward the main gate. Of course, Natalie comes running up:

“Caleb, did you find out I go out every noon, so you deliberately took the same route?”

She says it like she’s cracked some big code.

Some classmates see it happen and smirk. Natalie looks smug, so I elbow my roommate and say, “Who told you to suggest burgers outside? Now the beauty has her eye on you. Quick, did you look up her schedule?”

I’m just teasing, not actually hitting him.

My roommate yelps, “I’m innocent! Caleb, don’t set me up. She must already have a boyfriend. Why would I look up her schedule?”

Natalie, totally missing the joke, snaps, “I don’t have a boyfriend yet, but ugh, you guys are such children. Grow up.”

My roommate nearly chokes. “Girl, we all have girlfriends. Can you please stop clinging to us?”

“If our girlfriends find out, they’ll skin us alive!”

Everyone jumps in. A few passersby grin, sharing the inside joke only college kids get.

I nod. “Marcus’s girlfriend is a knockout. He wouldn’t go for you, so stop following us.”

I bolt, my roommates right behind me.

Coincidence or not, everyone in our dorm is pretty good-looking. Two even got chased by upperclassmen during orientation and ended up dating. But when it comes to Natalie, our goal is clear: avoid at all costs.

My job now is to amplify her shamelessness to the max.

Word travels fast. But as the rumors spread, the story gets twisted. Suddenly, it’s Natalie chasing multiple guys—even those with girlfriends.

She starts popping up on the campus confession page. Some posts are clearly from her roommates venting: not showering before bed, grinding her teeth, talking in her sleep, even claiming she once dated a celebrity.

It’s classic Natalie. A normal person would be mortified, but not her. She just updates her Instagram.

I scroll through her Insta, thumb shaking. There she is, pouting for the camera, captions dripping with fake vulnerability. “Poor me, even the hottest guy on campus is obsessed. I just want a normal life 😢😢.” I nearly throw my phone.

Her post blows up—hundreds of likes, dozens of comments. Some ask for the full story, others envy her “main character energy.” The comments are a mess of supportive DMs, people tagging friends, and snarky memes.

I sit back in my creaky desk chair, phone in hand, watching the digital circus unfold. But I’d been given a second chance. This time, I’d make sure everyone saw the real Natalie Brewer—even if it killed me again.