Never Date a Genius

Prologue: Fragments of Forever

Prologue

— Fragments of Forever —

Chris Sinclair learned early that “forever” didn’t exist.

Not in his house.

His parents’ marriage was the kind you saw in glossy magazines,  the NBA superstar husband and the high-society socialite wife, all picture-perfect smiles under flashing lights. On the outside, they were untouchable, and the Sinclair name whispered like royalty.

Inside, though, forever shattered nightly, glass voices raised behind slammed doors, apologies drowned out by silence, broken promises tucked beneath designer rugs.

By the time Chris turned seven, he’d stopped believing in fairy tales.

That was the year he met Mason Taylor.

First grade. A cracked school playground. A basketball that is too big for his hands.

“You play?” Mason asked, squinting into the sun, messy-haired and grinning like the world belonged to him.

Chris nodded once.

“Good. You’re on my team.”

That was it. No explanations. No questions. Mason decided they were friends, and somehow, that simple, effortless thing altered everything.

Because Mason came home.

The Taylors’ house was chaos and warmth rolled into one, loud voices overlapping in the kitchen, the smell of pancakes on Sundays. Mason’s mom hugged Chris like she’d known him forever, and Mason’s dad yelled at every game like Chris was his own son.

It felt… safe.

Whole.

And Chris didn’t realize how starved he was for that feeling until he had it.

Of course, Mason came with a permanent shadow.

Yasmin Taylor. His twin.

Back then, Yasmin was a nuisance, loud where Mason was reckless, stubborn where Chris was quiet. She followed them everywhere, always begging to join their games, claiming she was “just as good” at basketball.

“You’re too small,” Chris told her once, smirking as he snatched the ball away.

“Yeah? Well, you’re too slow.”
She stole it back and made the shot before he could blink.

Annoying.
Infuriating.
Impossible.

By middle school, though, Yasmin wasn’t so small anymore.

Somewhere between scraped knees and summer bike rides, the four of them, Chris, Mason, Yasmin, and Sophie Chase, became their own little universe. Sophie, with her messy ponytail and genius-level brain, fit into their chaos seamlessly, even if she spent half her time bickering with Mason about everything under the sun.

They made blanket forts in the Taylors’ living room, rode their bikes until dusk blurred into stars, and spent entire summers sprawled across the porch with melting popsicles dripping down their wrists. They traded secrets too big for their age, swore ridiculous oaths of loyalty, and believed, in that innocent, unshakable way only kids could, that they’d never lose this.

That they’d have forever.

Chris held on to that belief until he didn’t.

Because somewhere between second grade and eighth, something shifted.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a hundred small ones, quiet and unassuming.

Like the day Yasmin stood in front of him on the court, chin up, daring three older boys to pick on him again.
Or the time she slipped an extra cookie into his lunchbox because she noticed he hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Or the evenings when she sat beside him on the bleachers after practice, saying nothing, just swinging her legs in sync with his as if silence didn’t scare her the way it scared him.

He didn’t notice when her laughter started sounding different.
Or when her smile began to feel like sunlight after a week of rain.
Or when he started searching for her first in every crowd, like gravity itself had shifted.

But the truth was simple and terrifying:

Yasmin Taylor had become his favorite fragment of forever.

The one piece he wanted to keep.

And that terrified Chris more than anything because Chris Sinclair wasn’t stupid.

You didn’t fall for your best friend’s sister.

Not when Mason Taylor was practically his brother.
Not when Sophie was tangled in her own constant push-and-pull with Mason.
Not when the four of them were stitched together by years of memories too precious to risk.

So Chris buried it.
Every stolen glance. Every shallow breath. Every unspoken what-if.

He thought it was enough just to have her there.
To live in these fleeting, fragile moments, the bike rides, the porch swings, the golden laughter spilling into summer air.

Because Chris knew better than anyone:
Forever isn’t promised.
It’s built from fragments from the people who hold you together when the world falls apart.

And Yasmin Taylor?
She was the brightest piece he’d ever had.

Even if he had to spend the rest of his life pretending he didn’t want to hold on to her.

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