Let me start by saying one thing:I am not okay.
At this point, I was 97% sure my life was being directed by a group of hyperactive screenwriters who kept adding new plot twists just for fun. Either that, or the universe genuinely hated me. Both seemed likely.
I spent the entire evening replaying Zayne's words in my head."This one's mine."
Mine.Not "a friend". Not "a classmate". Not even "someone I randomly torture for fun."Mine.
Do you know how dangerous that kind of sentence is? It's the kind of sentence that makes your heart somersault, your brain shut down, and your dignity pack up and move to another country.
And of course, I couldn't tell anyone about it.
Except for Ivy, who cornered me in the girls' bathroom during lunch the next day.
"Spill. Everything. Now." she demanded, arms crossed like an officer on a crime show.
"I don't even know what to tell you," I groaned, leaning dramatically against the sink. "He just… he called me his. In public. While holding a kitten. I don't know whether to cry, scream, or knit him a scarf."
Ivy snorted. "Girl, you are so doomed."
"Thank you for the moral support."
"I live to serve," she said with a mock bow.
We were still laughing when the door opened, and to my absolute horror, in walked Mia.
Now, if you've never experienced the sheer terror of your school's top queen bee walking in on your trauma dump session, let me paint you a picture:It's like being caught mid-dance to your embarrassing playlist while wearing socks and sliding across the floor — except she has the power to socially destroy you.
"Aw, look at you two bonding," Mia cooed, inspecting her nails. "Must be nice. Having someone to cry to about Carter stealing your dignity."
Ivy opened her mouth to clap back, but I grabbed her arm.This was my fight.
"You know what, Mia?" I said, stepping closer, heart pounding. "You can have your drama, your followers, and your weird obsession with making my life miserable. But what you can't have is any control over how I feel about someone."
Mia blinked, clearly not expecting me to have a backbone.
"If Zayne wants to be annoying and confusing and emotionally damaging, that's my problem. Not yours. So maybe, just maybe — mind your business for once."
Ivy whispered, "Holy crap," like I'd just performed a miracle.
Mia scoffed, flipped her hair, and stormed out, heels clicking like tiny, angry threats against the floor.
As soon as she left, Ivy spun toward me. "Okay, you are officially my hero. That was the most savage thing I've heard since that one guy tried to ask out both the cheerleaders in one night and ended up on the roof in his underwear."
I laughed so hard, I almost cried.
Plot Twist Number Seven: Zayne Shows Up Uninvited.
After school, while I was avoiding human interaction in the library, someone plopped down across from me. I didn't even have to look up to know who it was.
"You're in my personal space," I muttered.
"It's a public table, Princess."
I finally glanced up and — of course — it was Zayne, in yet another stupidly attractive hoodie, hair messy like he'd just woken up from a nap he probably took during math class.
"What do you want?" I sighed.
"Just checking if you're still alive after Mia's little meltdown," he smirked. "She was furious. I think she cracked a nail."
"Why do you care?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Because," he said casually, leaning back, "I kinda like watching you drive her insane. It's entertaining."
I groaned. "You have issues."
"You have cute angry eyes."
My heart did that stupid thing again.Traitor.
"Anyway," he continued, sliding something across the table.It was… his hoodie.
"What is this?" I blinked.
"You looked cold earlier. And you forgot your jacket. Thought you might need it."
I stared at him like he'd grown a second head."Wait — you… noticed I was cold?"
"I notice a lot of things, Princess." He stood up, winked, and left like it was no big deal.
Meanwhile, I was sitting there clutching a grey hoodie like it was a rare, sacred artifact.
Ivy found me ten minutes later still hugging it.
"Girl… did you steal his hoodie?"
"No," I whispered dramatically. "It was a gift. From the emotionally unavailable love interest in my tragic teen drama life."
She patted my shoulder. "I'm gonna pray for you."
"Please do."
That night, lying in bed, wrapped in a hoodie that smelled like citrus, trouble, and the exact type of boy your parents warn you about, I officially declared:
"I am emotionally damaged. And it's all his fault."
But the worst part?
I didn't even want to be fixed.