Anvaila Emerson, a vibrant party lover, juggles her crush on Kevin Diaz, the basketball team captain, and the return of mysterious Austin Smith to senior year. Caught in a high school drama, Anvaila faces the complexities of emotions, friendships, a...
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He’s never been mine. Not really. And yet, sometimes it felt like I was something more to him—like the lingering glances and the way he said my name meant something. But those moments were just wishful thinking, weren’t they? He has a girlfriend, Selene, who’s made it painfully clear how much she hates me. And now, that moment keeps replaying in my mind—the way she kissed him on the court, like she was proving a point.
The look of surprise on his face didn’t feel like betrayal. It felt like something else, something unspoken. And maybe that’s the cruelest part—knowing he didn’t push her away, but also knowing he didn’t want me to see it happen. Kevin Diaz, with his mixed signals and his inability to choose a side, has left me in limbo for too long.
My heart knows the truth now. He has Selene, but part of him still wants me. And while that should feel like some twisted validation, it only hurts more. Because even if he wants me, it’s never enough to change anything. I’m just stuck, watching him walk a line he refuses to cross, holding onto a connection that only complicates my life.
Time will mend this, or so they say. I’ll get over him, eventually find something—or someone—better. But that doesn’t make the heartbreak any less real. Right now, it’s just me, this tangled mess of feelings, and the weeklong cocoon I’ve wrapped myself in.
I don’t think I’m ready to let go yet. Not because I believe there’s hope, but because admitting it’s over feels like losing a part of myself. For now, I’ll stay here, nursing the ache and trying to figure out how to move on from something that was never really mine to begin with.
A sharp beep from my phone slices through the fog of my thoughts, jolting me from my self-pity marathon. I blink, momentarily disoriented, trying to get my bearings—oh, right, still here, sprawled across my bed like a tragic heroine in an overly dramatic play, wrapped in blankets and wallowing in misery. The ceiling above me, with its tiny imperfections, has become an accidental masterpiece that I’ve studied far too intently this past week.
