The Fangirl

I stared blankly at the wall, my eyes glazed over as I recited the iconic lines from the "Heathers" musical in my head. "You're a copy, copy, copy, trying to make it to the top..." I couldn't help but hum along to the tune, my fingers tapping out the rhythm on the armrest of my chair. My room was a shrine to the movie and musical, with posters plastered on every available surface, and VHS tapes and CDs stacked haphazardly on my shelves. As a self-proclaimed fangirl, I had seen the movie "Heathers" at least a dozen times, and had listened to the soundtrack so many times that I could recite every lyric by heart. I loved everything about it - the dark humor, the complex characters, the scathing commentary on high school life. Veronica Sawyer, the charismatic queen bee, was my ultimate hero. I admired her strength, her wit, and her unwavering commitment to being herself, no matter the cost. I had spent hours poring over the script, analyzing every line, every gesture, every decision made by the characters. I had even gone so far as to create my own fan art, scribbling furiously in my notebooks as I brought the world of Westerboro High to life. My friends and family often joked that I was obsessed, and they weren't wrong. But I didn't care - for me, "Heathers" was more than just a movie or musical; it was a way of life. As I settled in for the night, I couldn't shake the feeling of restlessness that had been building all day. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with thoughts of J.D. and Veronica, of the Heathers and the outcasts. I felt like I was a part of their world, like I was living and breathing alongside them. Finally, exhaustion got the better of me, and I drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with visions of Westerboro High and the characters I loved so dearly. Little did I know, my life was about to take a dramatic turn, one that would change everything I thought I knew about myself and my place in the world. As I slept, I felt a strange sensation, like my consciousness was being pulled apart and put back together again. It was disorienting and confusing, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. But I pushed the thought aside, telling myself it was just a weird dream. It wasn't until I woke up the next morning, feeling groggy and disoriented, that I realized something was seriously wrong. I looked down at my hands, and they weren't my hands anymore. They were bigger, stronger, and more rough around the edges. I stumbled out of bed, my heart racing with fear, and staggered to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me was not my own. It was a boy with piercing blue eyes and jet-black hair, a boy with a mischievous grin and a look of quiet intensity. I stumbled backward, my mind reeling with shock and confusion. Who was I? And what had happened to me?