Wild Hearts

Chapter Seven

Sitting in the college library, surrounded by the muted whispers of students and the faint scent of old books, I scroll through my messages. My phone screen stays blank, no reply from Kelsey. The silence feels like a slow bleed, reminding me of every friendship that fell apart without warning.

A lump swells in my throat, prickling at the back of my eyes. I swallow hard, my lips curling into a brittle smile that feels like it might shatter at any moment. My thumb hovers over Kelsey's name, my heart a dull thud in my chest. Each silence stretches between us like an unbridgeable chasm, filled with unasked questions that gnaw at my insides: Did I push her away? Did I make the wrong choice? I cannot keep running after shadows of friendships that slipped away like sand through my fingers.

I pull up Professor Bernardi's Instagram, my heart kicking up a notch as his profile picture appears. Nothing new. No photos, no stories. My heart stutters as I stare at that same smug smile on his profile picture. A wave of warmth flushes my cheeks, and I can almost feel the familiar heat of embarrassment rising within me. The glint in his eyes seems to mock my unspoken desire to reach out, twisting my stomach into a knot. My palms grow clammy as I bite my lip, grappling with the conflicting urge to reach out and the fear of rejection. Each breath feels heavier, as if the weight of what could have been is pressing down on my chest. What if I text him, only to be met with silence? It is a risk I am not sure I can afford to take.

With Bernardi, it was not just attraction. It was the way he saw me—how our conversations flowed from literature to life, pulling me into these deep, mature thoughts. He made me feel like I was more than just Julia with the followers. I was someone else with him. Someone better. But I cannot shake the sting of realization—was any of it real, or was it just a fantasy I crafted in the quiet corners of my mind?

A notification pings, but it is not from him. My heart sinks. I wish I could silence the hope that still flickers within me, a stubborn ember refusing to die out. Maybe he misses me too. Maybe those late-night conversations were more than just echoes in the void. But then again, wasn't I always the one reaching out first? My thumb hovers over his profile, my mind torn between missing the validation and the sting of knowing it was probably never real.

"Are the fans going crazy?" Preston's voice cuts through my foggy thoughts, sharp and clear like a bell ringing in a quiet room. He slides into the seat next to me, and for a second, I blink, trying to refocus. His presence feels warm, solid, a distraction I was not ready for.

"Just a little," I reply, turning my phone face down on the table with a soft thud, a futile attempt to banish the memory of Bernardi's last text—his words still weave through my mind, a melody I cannot quite shake off. Why does he have to make me feel this way? It is like I am betraying a ghost.

"Is it okay if I sit here or should I keep my distance?" Preston's grin is playful, teasing, and for a moment, I am pulled into it.

I hesitate, biting my lip, my heart racing. But even then, a small voice in the back of my mind wonders—my fingers fidgeted with the edge of my notebook, trying to distract myself from the way his smile sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Does he know how much space he is taking up in my head already?

"I mean, you can sit here. I won't bite... Can't promise my dad won't, though." I smile, trying to ground myself in the moment, to push Bernardi's ghost out of my thoughts. "I'm sorry about that, by the way," I add, my voice softer.

"Oh, don't worry. I get it." He pauses, a playful glint in his eyes. "He must have realized."

Realized what? I almost ask. Preston's easy charm pulls me in, but beneath it lies a nagging fear: if I let myself fall for him, will he be another shadow of what I have lost, or could he be something altogether different? My heart races, not just from attraction, but from the weight of potential heartbreak looming in the background. I glance up at Preston, feeling the weight of the past and present colliding in my chest. I can almost hear Bernardi's voice, always so analytical, dissecting my thoughts like they were pieces of art on display. "Realized?" I echo, but I am only half in this conversation, the other half still back in those secret moments with Bernardi.