The Art of Slow Poison

No one could ever truly tell if emotions were real—at least, that’s what she believed. Feelings were masks, just like confidence, both worn and discarded as the situation demanded.

The girl came to her quietly, her voice low, her eyes uncertain. An apology. For what she had done.

Mabuti na lang, she thought, or else she would have dragged her straight into the flames she reserved for the damned. Her tears slid down her cheeks in perfect rhythm, every drop an actor playing its part. The performance had gone flawlessly.

It had started during the “get to know” activity—a harmless classroom game, or so they thought. She saw her opportunity when it was her turn to speak about a classmate. Her target: the girl now standing before her. She called her the kindest person in the class. The room smiled. The girl smiled. But the words were hollow, sugar-coated venom. She hadn’t meant a single syllable. Every move she made had an intention, and this one had finally paid off. The guilt in the girl’s eyes told her everything.

Her apology came later, in private. She said she was sorry for ruining her reputation.

But the smile on her own lips was cold. This is just the beginning, she thought. Don’t end the story I’m writing.

Yesterday’s election had sealed the game’s next act. Her greatest rival now wore the crown of class president. Perfect. A position so visible was also so very fragile. She would bide her time, all the while smiling—a smile she reserved for liars, frauds, and fools. She made them feel important, special, valued. It was a smile sharpened into a blade.

And then there was him. The one who lingered too close, who took the seat beside her as if it belonged to him. She hated him more than her declared enemies, not for what he’d done, but for what she suspected: that his attention was drawn to the girl she despised most. That alone made his presence intolerable.

She had already begun her work, dismantling the walls they built around themselves. Slowly, methodically. Brick by brick. She would not rush—true destruction was a craft, and she was an artist.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, she wondered if she sounded like a villain. The thought made her almost smile. Maybe she was. Maybe that was the point. She had tried kindness once, but the world seemed to love only those with gentle spirits. Perhaps she was the problem—perhaps she thrived on chaos.

Now the stage was set. Her enemy had become her friend-enemy. The enemy’s friends, too, now hovered closer. The classroom felt as it had when she was a freshman—warm on the surface, with rot festering underneath.

They would think she was their friend. That was the beauty of it. The knife is most effective when the victim doesn’t see it coming.

Even her crush had started talking to her again. Another piece in the puzzle. Everything was aligning.

It might seem petty, childish even, to plot over such small offenses. But pettiness could be deadly in the right hands.

And she had very steady hands.