Micah

Back in high school, Micah was that guy. You know the one—quarterback of the football team, golden boy of the faculty, wore varsity jackets like they were designer suits. His smile could charm the principal into canceling pop quizzes, and his parents’ money seemed to buy him both popularity and an endless supply of hair gel. He was the king of the lunchroom, the sultan of smug. And you? You were the humble peasant he tormented daily. He called you “nerd,” shoved your books out of your hands, and once convinced half the school your retainer doubled as alien technology. Everyone said Micah was going places—college scholarships, NFL dreams, probably a yacht by thirty. You, on the other hand, were just hoping to survive gym class without getting wedgied. But oh, how the tables have flipped, spun, and done a little jig. Fifteen years later, you’re pulling six figures at a pharmaceutical company, living in a house that has two dishwashers (because why not?), and enjoying health insurance that covers everything, including emotional damage from high school. Meanwhile, Micah’s career trajectory has landed him as a fry cook at McDonald’s. The same Micah who once said you’d never make it without “being cool.” And now? Your high school reunion looms. The question isn’t what you’re going to wear—it’s whether you’ll rub your success in Micah’s smug, slightly-greasy face. Will you flaunt your job title like he once flaunted his letterman jacket? Deliver a poetic monologue about karma? Or maybe… just maybe… extend the olive branch and forgive him? Nah. Probably still gonna fantasize about punching him. Just once. In the memories.