Tired of overthinking, Sorell gave herself a timeout in the shopping mecca of Haussman. The woman went incognito with a cap, puffer coat, and jogger set. Sorell hoped she could buy things without being asked any other question except in what size should I get this for you?

The anchor visited her favorite brands, Marni, Jacquemus, and Balmain.

Never in her life did Sorell imagine she would afford such luxury. In moments like this, she felt like her own prince charming. Sorell left her packages for delivery and moved on to her favorite floor. She began a tour of the lingerie brands.

She fitted a bra when she heard, "Is everything okay, madame?" From the other side of the curtain.

The familiar voice made Sorell poke her head out.

"Oh my god, Petra. I can't believe it."

Sorell could believe it; her past refused to release her from its shackles.

Still, she was genuinely happy to see her old friend. Petra had never done her wrong. Feelings were hard to control, and it wasn't as though Sorell had ever marked Ravan as her territory like a child saying first.

Also, the anchor was more than glad to meet Petra in her size four body.

For Sorell, it wasn't the revenge of the bald girl but an opportunity to show herself under a more glamorous light.

"Hey, Sorell, good to see you too. It's been like forever."

"Fourteen years, to be exact. I don't remember you replying to one of my messages. I guess you were too busy flying about."

Yes, Sorell tried to keep in touch with a friend who ghosted herㅡseeing the remarkable life Petra displayed on the Web, Sorell stopped writing. She was somebody, but maybe she still wasn't good enough for Petra.

"Wow, and the prank you just pulled on me, I thought you were a sales assistant."

Petra sketched a nervous smile, "I recognized you."

"You almost got me," Sorell said as she changed back and left the dressing room.

Petra's eyes lingered on Sorell's hands, "are you taking all those?"

Sorell smiled, "yeah, like a woman never has enough panties."

"Right," Petra said while she looked at the very petite sets.

"Well, I'll be leaving," Petra stormed off, leaving Sorell perplexed on the spot.

The reporter's mind began to piece the jigsaw of her encounter with Petra as she walked to the tills.

Her reflection stopped when the cashier announced an extremely spicy price for her ensembles.

"Cela fait mille huit cent cinquante-cinq euros et soixante dix centimes. [One thousand eight hundred euros and seventy-five cents.]

Sorell took out her Barclays gold card and composed her pin on the touchpad.

Sorell was a rich African tourist for the cashier who didn't recognize the anchor. They had a habit of splurging money. She even imagined Sorell as a tribal princess or the daughter of some dictator spending money of those exploited by a stringent regime.

The cashier didn't care; the amount Sorell spent was routine on the floor where one couldn't buy a decent set under the hundred euro benchmark.

Sorell left the building, but she couldn't help to think of the yellow ensemble she left behind.

Cute lingerie was things young Sorell could only dream of having. Her mother refused to invest more than necessary to buy Sorell underwear adapted to her morphology.

It was Primark or nothing. The designs weren't crazy, and of course, they didn't hold long. Sorell ended up cracking knickers and bras.

How she dreamt of fitting an elegant Lise Charmel ensemble, but she neither had the money nor the size.

Lingerie was one of the first things Sorell bought massively. She loved to look at her slimmed silhouette in the mirror.

Palmer's cocoa butter did wonders on her body. The cream erased the heftiest stretch marks, and her dark melanin camouflaged the remaining lines.

Seeing herself in beautiful lingerie was a trophy. Some would say Sorell was vain, but it was the result of hard labor for the woman. Thus nothing was too expensive for her body.

Sorell couldn't get the yellow Armani set she left out of her mind. Despite her complex relationship with the color, the ensemble style suited her frame. Oh, what the heck, she thought. Sorell made a u-turn and went back to the floor. The woman almost forgot her mission when she saw who stood at the tills.

What was Petra doing there?

Suddenly all the images of their encounter played before her. Petra didn't have a handbag, nor did she wear a coat. In the euphoria, Sorell forgot the essential. Petra asked her if she was okay and pretended she had played a prank. It seemed it wasn't a joke from the looks of things.

Why did she lie?

No, Petra didn't lie. She just played along with Sorell's assumption, thought the journalist.

Sorell took her set and walked to the tills. Petra lifted her head and struck the signature pose she used when her pride got the best of her.

"I forgot an ensemble."

Petra took it and began to take off the tags.

"Go on, ask," Petra said as she placed the set in a bag.

"Ask you what?"

The woman cocked a brow, "ask why I'm behind the counter?"

"I figure you work here," Sorell said and took out her card.

"And you're not curious to know why?"

"Should I?" Sorell returned.

A crooked smile appeared on Petra's lips.

Sorell was curious, but Petra's awkwardness prevented her from asking questions. She knew how it felt to want to crawl under a rock because someone had discovered something about her. Sorell often felt that way when her mother's slaps were too heavy on her cheeks.

"It's temporary, Sorell."

"Okay," Sorell said as she took the receipt Petra gave to her.

"Sorell, did you hear me."

"I did, Petra," Sorell didn't know what to say. "Maybe we should have lunch sometimes to catch up. It's been a long time."

Sorell was sincere. She wanted to understand why the friend she thought lived lavishly worked in the Galeries.

While Petra thought it was Sorell's way to get information to mock her.

Sorell imagined Petra was a floor manager or a demonstrator until another woman she knew came along.

"Petra, the dressing rooms are full of hangers. Can you attend to that, please? Oh, miss Knechi what owes us your visit?"

"Bonjour, madame Hortis, I just wanted to buy a few ensembles."

"And did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, eh, your," Sorell didn't know what to call Petra as she didn't learn her job title, "ㅡPetra helped me out," she ended up saying.

"She did?" Mrs. Hortis exclaimed, and Sorell would have asked why the woman was shocked by her reply if Petra didn't come back.

"Is it clear?"

"Yes."

"I'll be leaving," Sorell hurried to say. For a reason, Sorell couldn't explain; it was she who felt embarrassed.

Perhaps because she never thought of living the day to see stunning Petra working like a minion.

Sorell almost felt uncomfortable in her shoes though she merited every inch and millimeter of her lifestyle.

The woman refused to let her encounter with Petra trigger old memories and revive insecurities.

She decided to unwind with a complete beauty ritual at L'Institut Decleor.

She came out feeling revigorated but also very hungry.

It wasn't natural hunger, but the type she had when she got anxious. Despite her efforts, Petra managed to wedge a foot in her thoughts, letting flash-back do the running-man in her mind.

Strangely enough, the souvenirs were of the many times she watched Ravan and Petra walk hand in hand while she trailed behind, wondering when her time would come to shine and be loved.

Sorell wished she was Petra, the girl with the looks and the man of her dreams in moments like those.

She was finally THE girl, and it seemed she was even better off than her friend.

Sorell went home, and for some unknown reason, she scrutinized everything picture on Petra's Instagram wall. Every photo made one envious.

Prestigious hotels, luxury cars, and restaurants, one could not imagine Petra's current life from them. Again her friend said it was temporary, and Sorell preferred to believe the job was a slight curveball moment in life Petra would soon dodge. Sorell was about to put her phone down when the notification arrived.

The reactions were immediate.

The tweet was a photo of her in her teens and fattest form reciting a poem at the school's assembly.

Whose that girl? Sorell read.

It was back, the worst trolling account that existed. Unfortunately for Sorell, it was all dedicated to her.

Sorell had managed to have the taken multiple times, but the procedure took months, sometimes years. Sorell had to bring tangible proof of harassment.

How ironic, the victim was the one having to bring evidence. Never had Sorell's head shone as much with stress while the account was active.

How to prove one was a victim of cyberbullying when an adult celebrity? For many, memes and trolling were part of the job.

One just had to deal with it if they chose to be famous.

Sorell saw all her past pasted on Twitter. It was the starting point of the rumors concerning her weight and Plastic surgery.

Tosorellwithlove.v.5, yep, the troll was at its fifth version of persecution evolution.

The comments fused.

TinTin@711:Wow she was sure fat.

Rolex@glitters: I'm surprised she never did a spot for WeightWatchers.

KFCdips@12345678: Damn, she was a walrus.

Someone posted a gif of Martin Lawrence in Big Momma's House with the hashtag Serene@Sorell I didn't know you played in this.

A thread trend began where people posted gifs from the Nutty Professor to Norbert. With comments such as I found your mom or your dad.

Sorell imagined they were kids, and she should ignore them, but her blood pressure kept climbing. The mockeries were the same as when she was in school.

Though an adult, Sorell wished to crawl up into a ball in the corner of the room instead, she picked up her phone and ordered.

When the food arrived, she ate like a scavenger. Only to throw everything up before throwing everything in the bin.

The smell of food made her nauseous; she vomitted again and took down her bin. Sorell came back, opened the windows, and threw herself on her sofa.

Again she realized she could buy whatever underwear, prim her body to the brim; she would always be the ugly fat girl within.

Ravan, too saw the thread as his Twitter had Sorell as sole interest.

He smiled at the pic that reminded him of his youth. Again the man lived a Shallow Hal moment. Sorell's appearance didn't matter. The man understood the emotions, which were a mix of immaturity and fear of the unknown in his youth were love.

It wasn't a fickle crush but the type of love that could survive time. His brothers mocked him, and Sorell rejected him. Ravan felt a fool but the bitter sentiment faced as he stared at the Twitter post.

Who was behind the infamous Twitter account? Ravan was sure it was someone from their school days. No one else could have such photos unless they were there.

Sorell had no enemies in high school, to Ravan's knowledge. Some kidsvmade fun of her weight, but that was about it. One could say it was more than enough. Sorell was smart. Ravan guessed most were jealous and found nothing else to use to pick on her.

Sorell's width scared many. No one psychically bullied her. Again teen Ravan's immaturity made him believe Sorell was unfazed as she sometimes laughed along with the jokes.

Now Ravan, the adult, thought of the psychological impact of being mocked for over a decade.

The man saw how Sorell avoided eating. The consequence and stigmas were there, but everyone failed to see it.

Perhaps Sorell herself denied it and believed she was okay.

Guilt draped Ravan, who didn't think he was a better friend than a stranger for Sorell as he realized he played spectators without moving a single finger.

How could he say he loved Sorell when he was incapable of seeing all the suffering people's words inflicted on her.

For the first time, Ravan's thoughts landed where they should. How selfish he was, of course, he had encountered discrimination and prejudice, but he couldn't compare himself to Sorell.

Too big, too thin, too black, a woman.

Like many women of color, Sorell carried a backpack and luggage of being too much of what people didn't want and not enough of what they desired.

One either saw the glass half full or half empty. Sorell was just broken.

Perhaps his feelings were too much, Ravan thought. He wanted Sorell to love and accept him, and the man found himself asking in what honor should Sorell do such a thing.

How could he ask her that when all Sorell had known was a constant rejection?

And so she rejected him.

After the sadness of the realization, Ravan found another motivation. He had waited years to express his feelings. What would a few weeks or months change?

In this game, Sorell was the novice. Thus he would teach her not how to love but how to be loved.