THE GIRL EVERYONE NOTICES

MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 1: The Girl Everyone Notices

---

The morning sun crept through the gap in my curtains like an unwelcome guest who didn't understand the concept of boundaries. I groaned, pulling my pillow over my face, as if that pathetic barrier could somehow stop the inevitable: Monday.

"Asenath! If you don't get up right now, I'm coming in there with a bucket of ice water!"

My mother's voice pierced through the walls with surgical precision. She wasn't bluffing either. Last semester, she'd actually done it. I still had trust issues with buckets.

"I'm up!" I called back, my voice muffled by Egyptian cotton. "I'm literally standing right now. Doing jumping jacks. So much energy."

I didn't move.

The sound of footsteps approaching my door sent a jolt of genuine panic through my body. I threw the covers off and launched myself out of bed with the grace of a newborn giraffe, my feet tangling in the sheets and sending me stumbling into my dresser.

"Ow. Ow. Okay, I'm up. I'm awake. This is me, being conscious."

The footsteps paused, then retreated. Victory.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. My dark hair looked like it had gotten into a fight with my pillow and lost spectacularly. Mascara from two days ago had migrated under my eyes, giving me that sought-after "raccoon who's seen some things" aesthetic. One of my eyebrows seemed higher than the other, though I was pretty sure that was just my face being dramatic.

"Exquisite beauty," I muttered to myself, attempting to finger-comb the bird's nest on my head. "Charming and elegant. A vision of grace."

My reflection stared back at me, unimpressed.

Here's the thing about being the girl everyone notices: it sounds glamorous until you realize that "everyone noticing" includes the creepy guy at the convenience store, your mother's friends who always comment on how you've "developed," and every single person who witnessed your most embarrassing moments throughout your academic career.

I was twenty-two years old, fresh out of university, and somehow still haunted by things that happened when I was seventeen. If that isn't a special kind of pathetic, I don't know what is.

The bathroom was my first destination—a necessary pitstop before facing the world. I turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up, scrolling through my phone with the glazed expression of someone who wasn't ready to process information yet.

Three texts from my mother (all sent within the last ten minutes, all variations of "wake up"), one from my coworker asking if I could cover her shift (no), and seventeen notifications from the group chat I kept muted for my mental health.

And one text from Beryl.

**Beryl:** *good morning sunshine ☀️ coffee before work?*

I smiled before I could stop myself. Beryl had this annoying habit of being aggressively positive in the morning, which should have been irritating but somehow wasn't. We'd been friends since we were seven years old—fifteen years of her sending me good morning texts and me responding with varying degrees of grumpiness.

**Me:** *it's 7am. nothing is good.*

**Beryl:** *so that's a yes to coffee*

**Me:** *obviously*

**Beryl:** *usual spot. 8:15. don't be late*

**Me:** *i'm always late*

**Beryl:** *i know. that's why i said 8:15 when i meant 8:30.*

I snorted, tossing my phone onto the counter and stepping into the shower. The hot water did its job of transforming me from a resentful gremlin into something resembling a functional human being. I went through my routine on autopilot—shampoo, conditioner, that fancy body wash Beryl had bought me for my birthday because she said I "deserved to smell like a tropical vacation."

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and trailing steam like some kind of low-budget movie entrance, I had approximately forty-five minutes to make myself presentable.

I stood in front of my closet, dripping onto the carpet, and contemplated my options.

The thing about working at a boutique marketing firm was that the dress code existed in this frustrating limbo between "professional" and "creative." Too formal and you looked like you were trying too hard. Too casual and you got passive-aggressive emails from HR about "maintaining brand image." It was a delicate balance that I had not yet mastered.

I settled on high-waisted black trousers and a burgundy blouse that my mother said made me look "expensive." Whatever that meant. Makeup was minimal—foundation to hide the evidence of my Netflix binge, mascara to convince people I had naturally long lashes, and lip gloss because my lips got dry and I refused to look crusty.

My hair, mercifully, had decided to cooperate. It fell in dark waves past my shoulders, the kind of effortless look that actually required quite a bit of effort. I'd learned a long time ago that "I woke up like this" was a complete lie perpetuated by people who woke up two hours early to look like they hadn't tried.

"Asenath! Breakfast!"

"Coming!"

I grabbed my bag, gave myself one last look in the mirror—acceptable, not tragic—and headed downstairs.

My mother was in the kitchen, already dressed for her own job at the hospital, somehow looking more put-together at 7:30 in the morning than I would look at any point during the day. She had the same dark hair as me, the same brown eyes, the same tendency toward dramatic facial expressions. Looking at her was like looking at a preview of my future, which was both comforting and mildly terrifying.

"You look nice," she said, sliding a plate of toast toward me. "Date?"

"It's Monday, Mom. I'm going to work."

"You can have dates on Mondays."

"I cannot have dates ever, because my life is a void of romantic prospects and I've accepted this."

She gave me that look—the one that said she didn't believe me but wasn't going to push. "You're too pretty to be this dramatic."

"Being pretty is exactly why I'm this dramatic. Have you met pretty people? We're all disasters."

"Eat your toast."

I ate my toast.

"Are you meeting Beryl?" she asked, too casually.

"For coffee. Why?"

"No reason. I just think it's nice that you two have stayed so close. She's a good influence on you."

I paused mid-chew. There was something in her tone—something I couldn't quite identify. My mother had known Beryl almost as long as I had. She'd watched us grow up together, had hosted countless sleepovers, had driven us to movies and mall trips and all the other activities that defined female friendship in our formative years.

"She's my best friend," I said slowly. "Of course we're close."

"I know. I'm just saying." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Have a good day at work, sweetheart."

"Yeah. You too."

I finished my breakfast in contemplative silence, trying to figure out what that conversation had actually been about. With my mother, there were always layers. She never said things without meaning something else underneath. It was exhausting.

By the time I left the house, my brain had decided to table the issue for later analysis. I had more pressing concerns—namely, not being late to meet Beryl.

The café was a ten-minute walk from my house, nestled between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop in the kind of neighborhood that made you feel like you should be carrying a canvas tote bag and having opinions about coffee beans. It was called "The Daily Grind," which was either a clever pun or a cry for help from the owner. Possibly both.

I spotted Beryl through the window before I even opened the door. She was sitting at our usual table—the one by the window with the wobbly leg that we'd learned to compensate for—scrolling through her phone with a small smile on her face.

Beryl was the kind of beautiful that snuck up on you. She didn't have the sharp, obvious features that made people stop and stare. Instead, she had this warmth to her—soft brown skin, hair that she kept in neat locs usually pulled back from her face, eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She looked like someone who would help you move apartments and actually mean it when she offered.

She looked up as I walked in, and her face lit up in a way that made something twist in my chest. I ignored it, like I always did.

"You're early," she said, sounding genuinely surprised.

"You told me 8:15 when you meant 8:30. I know your tricks." I slid into the seat across from her. "Also, I ran two red lights."

"You walked here."

"Pedestrian red lights. Very dangerous. I risked my life for this friendship."

Beryl laughed—a real laugh, the kind that came from her whole body. "Your dedication is noted and appreciated. I already ordered for you."

"You're an angel. A perfect human being. I don't deserve you."

"You don't," she agreed, sliding a cup toward me. "But I keep you around anyway. You're entertaining."

"Wow. I'm entertainment to you. That's what fifteen years of friendship has earned me."

"Fifteen years and you still can't wake up on time. I think entertainment is generous."

I took a sip of my coffee—oat milk latte, two pumps of vanilla, exactly how I liked it—and felt some of the Monday tension ease from my shoulders. This was the best part of my routine. Not the coffee itself, though that certainly helped. But this. Beryl. The easy rhythm of our conversation, the way we could slip into banter without thinking about it.

"So," Beryl said, leaning back in her chair. "How was your weekend?"

"Uneventful. Netflix. Regret. The usual." I wrapped my hands around my cup. "How was yours?"

Something flickered across her face—there and gone so quickly I almost missed it. "Good. Yeah, it was good. I went to that art show downtown. The one I told you about?"

"The one with the sculptures made of recycled materials?"

"That's the one. It was actually really cool. There was this piece made entirely of old computer keyboards, and somehow it looked like a human heart. Like, anatomically accurate. I don't know how they did it."

I watched her talk, noting the way she gestured with her hands, the enthusiasm that crept into her voice when she was excited about something. Beryl had always been like this—passionate about things, engaged with the world in a way that I found both admirable and exhausting.

"You should have come with me," she said, and there was something almost wistful in her tone. "You would have liked it."

"You know I'm useless at art stuff. I would have just stood there nodding and pretending to understand what 'juxtaposition of post-modern aesthetics' means."

"You don't have to understand it. You just have to feel it."

"I don't feel anything before noon. You know this."

She smiled, but it seemed dimmer than usual. "Yeah. I know."

There was a pause—the kind of pause that felt weighted, like there was something neither of us was saying. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, suddenly very interested in the pattern on my coffee cup.

"So," I said, desperate to fill the silence. "Work. We should probably talk about work. Like adults. Who have jobs."

"Right. Work." Beryl shook her head slightly, as if clearing it. "Actually, speaking of work—did you hear about the new client?"

"The tech startup? Yeah, Priya mentioned something about it. Apparently they're a nightmare to work with."

"That's an understatement. Their CEO called three times yesterday demanding changes to a proposal we haven't even finished yet. And their head of marketing—" She stopped abruptly.

I raised an eyebrow. "What about their head of marketing?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Beryl. You have the world's worst poker face. What is it?"

She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she sighed. "You're going to find out anyway, so I might as well tell you. Their head of marketing is Kiyan Sharma."

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Kiyan Sharma.

The room seemed to narrow, the ambient noise of the café fading to a dull buzz. I was suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat, too fast and too loud in my chest.

"Kiyan," I repeated, my voice strange and distant. "Kiyan Sharma. As in—"

"As in your high school Kiyan, yes." Beryl's expression was careful, guarded. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I only found out on Friday and I didn't want to ruin your weekend."

"How thoughtful of you." The words came out sharper than I intended. "So he's going to be our client. He's going to be in our office. Having meetings. With us."

"Technically with the marketing team. So yes, with us."

I set my coffee down because my hands were shaking and I didn't trust myself not to spill it. Kiyan Sharma. The name alone was enough to send me spiraling back five years, to a version of myself I'd worked very hard to bury.

"Asenath." Beryl's voice was soft. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "It was five years ago. We were kids. I'm sure he's completely different now. Probably doesn't even remember me."

"He definitely remembers you."

"How do you know that?"

She hesitated. "Because I saw him on Friday. When he came in for the initial meeting."

"You *saw* him? And you're just now telling me this?"

"I was trying to figure out the best way to bring it up!"

"The best way to bring up that the guy who ruined my life is about to become a regular presence in our workplace? There's no good way to bring that up, Beryl. You just say it. Like ripping off a bandaid. A horrible, soul-crushing bandaid."

Beryl reached across the table and grabbed my hand. Her palm was warm against mine, grounding. "He didn't ruin your life. He did a shitty thing when you were both seventeen. That's not the same as ruining your life."

"He told everyone I—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Even now, five years later, the memory of it made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

"I know what he told everyone. I was there, remember? I was the one who held you while you cried for three days straight. I was the one who keyed his car."

"You keyed his car?"

"In retrospect, not my finest moment. But he deserved it." She squeezed my hand. "My point is, you survived. You graduated. You went to university and killed it and got a job and built a life. Whatever he did or didn't do, you came out on top. Don't give him the power to undo all of that."

I looked at our intertwined fingers, at the contrast of her skin against mine. Beryl had always been my rock, my constant. Through every terrible thing that had happened in my life, she'd been there. Steady and unwavering and impossibly, frustratingly loyal.

"When did you get so wise?" I asked quietly.

"I've always been wise. You just never listen."

"That's fair."

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "We should go. If we're late, Priya will have our heads."

"Yeah." I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. "Yeah, okay. Let's go be professional adults who don't have emotional breakdowns over boys from high school."

"That's the spirit."

We gathered our things and headed for the door. But as we walked out into the morning sunlight, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change. That the careful equilibrium I'd built over the past five years was about to be shattered.

Kiyan Sharma was back in my life.

And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it.

---

The office was a converted warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial lighting and carefully curated "creative chaos." It was the kind of space that had been designed by someone who had very strong opinions about open floor plans and collaborative workspaces. As someone who valued privacy and quiet, I found it personally offensive.

Beryl and I arrived at 8:52—early by my standards, late by hers. The morning rush was in full swing, people milling around the kitchen area with coffee cups and laptops, engaged in the kind of small talk that I actively avoided.

"Asenath! Beryl!" Priya appeared from nowhere, her dark hair swept up in an elaborate bun, her glasses slightly askew. She was our project manager, which meant she existed in a permanent state of controlled panic. "Good, you're here. Conference room in ten minutes. Emergency team meeting."

"What emergency?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

"The Nexus account. Apparently their leadership wants to 'realign expectations' before we move forward." She made air quotes around the phrase with barely concealed contempt. "Which means they want to change everything we've done so far without adjusting the timeline or budget."

"Classic."

"Welcome to Monday. Conference room. Ten minutes. Don't be late."

She disappeared as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving me and Beryl standing in the entrance like two people who'd just been given a death sentence.

"This is going to be bad," Beryl said.

"This is going to be so bad."

"He's going to be there."

"I know."

"Are you going to be okay?"

I turned to look at her, really look at her. Her brow was furrowed with concern, her hand half-raised as if she wanted to touch me but wasn't sure if she should. She cared about me so much—it was written all over her face. And I didn't know what to do with that.

"I'm going to be fine," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "I'm a professional. I can handle one meeting with an ex-whatever from high school."

"He wasn't your ex. You never actually dated."

"Which makes it worse, somehow. At least if we'd dated, there would be closure. Instead, it's just this... thing. This unresolved, mortifying thing that haunts me every time I think about it."

Beryl opened her mouth to respond, but we were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening behind us.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

Because there he was. Kiyan Sharma, in the flesh, walking into my place of work like he had every right to be there. Which, technically, he did. But that was beside the point.

He looked different than I remembered—older, obviously, but more than that. He'd grown into his features, the awkward angles of adolescence smoothed into something more refined. His hair was shorter, professionally styled, and he was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He looked like someone who had gotten everything he wanted out of life.

He also looked like someone who had just seen a ghost.

"Asenath?" His voice cracked on my name, and for a second—just a second—I saw the boy he used to be underneath the polished exterior. "I didn't know you worked here."

"Surprise," I said flatly.

"I—wow. This is—" He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the careful styling. "It's really good to see you."

"Is it?"

Beryl's hand found mine, squeezing gently. A reminder to behave. I squeezed back, acknowledging the message even if I didn't fully agree with it.

"I mean it," Kiyan said, taking a step closer. "I've thought about you a lot over the years. I've wanted to reach out, but I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me. After everything."

"After you told the entire school that I threw myself at you and you rejected me because I wasn't 'worth the effort'?" The words spilled out before I could stop them. "After you turned me into a joke? Yeah, I can see why you might be hesitant to reach out."

He flinched. Actually flinched, like I'd slapped him. Good.

"That's not—" He stopped, took a breath. "That's not what happened. Not exactly. And I know that's not an excuse. I know I can't take back what I did. But I was seventeen and stupid and I made the worst decision of my life. I've regretted it every day since."

"Congratulations on your regret. I'm sure it's very fulfilling."

"Asenath." Beryl's voice was quiet but firm. "Conference room in five minutes."

Right. The meeting. The reason we were all here, standing in this uncomfortable tableau like characters in a play no one wanted to be in.

"We should go," I said, not looking at Kiyan. "Priya doesn't like it when we're late."

I walked away without waiting for a response, pulling Beryl along with me. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and I felt like I might throw up or cry or scream. Maybe all three.

But I kept walking.

That was the thing about being the girl everyone notices. You learn very quickly how to pretend you don't care. How to hold your head high when everything inside you is falling apart. How to smile like nothing is wrong when everything is spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

I'd had a lot of practice.

---

The conference room was glass-walled, which meant everyone outside could watch our meeting like it was some kind of corporate reality show. I hated it. I hated everything about this day.

We were arranged around the table in an order that seemed designed to maximize my discomfort. Me on one side with Beryl, Priya at the head, and two empty chairs directly across from us that I knew—with a certainty that made my stomach churn—were reserved for Kiyan and whoever else from Nexus had decided to grace us with their presence.

"Okay," Priya said, shuffling through her notes. "Before they get here, let me brief you on the current situation. Nexus is a tech startup focused on AI-driven productivity tools. They're about to launch their flagship product and they want a full marketing campaign. Website refresh, social media strategy, launch event, the works."

"And they're impossible to work with," Beryl added.

"And they're impossible to work with, yes. Their CEO changes his mind every five minutes and their head of marketing—" She glanced at me. "Well, you've met him."

"Unfortunately."

Priya's eyes narrowed, clearly sensing there was a story there, but she didn't ask. Professional boundaries. I appreciated it.

The door opened, and Kiyan walked in, followed by another man I didn't recognize. They took their seats across from us, and I made a point of looking at my notes instead of at Kiyan's face.

"Thank you all for meeting on such short notice," the other man said. He introduced himself as Derek Chen, CEO of Nexus, and immediately launched into a monologue about his "vision" for the company that was equal parts ambitious and delusional.

I tuned him out, focusing instead on not making eye contact with Kiyan. Which was difficult, because I could feel him looking at me. That particular sensation of being watched, of someone's attention focused on you like a laser. I'd forgotten how unsettling it was.

"Asenath."

I looked up. Everyone was staring at me.

"Sorry, what?"

"Derek was asking about your experience with launch campaigns," Priya said, her tone suggesting this was not the first time she'd said my name.

"Right. Yes. Launch campaigns." I scrambled to recover. "I worked on the Verity Cosmetics rebrand last year. Coordinated their product launch across multiple platforms, increased their social engagement by 47%."

"Impressive," Derek said. "Kiyan speaks very highly of this firm's capabilities."

I glanced at Kiyan without meaning to. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't read—something between hope and resignation.

"We've known each other a long time," he said quietly. "I've always known Asenath was destined for great things."

The compliment landed wrong, twisted by the history between us. Was this his version of an apology? Praising me in a professional setting to make up for tearing me down in a personal one?

"Let's focus on the project," I said, more sharply than I intended. "What exactly are you looking for in terms of messaging?"

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of marketing jargon and carefully modulated tension. I took notes. I answered questions when directly addressed. I avoided Kiyan's gaze with the determination of someone defusing a bomb.

When it was finally over, I was out of my seat before anyone else had even moved.

"Asenath, wait."

Kiyan's voice followed me out of the conference room, into the open floor plan that offered absolutely no escape. I stopped, because running away in front of my coworkers would have been more embarrassing than whatever he was about to say.

"What."

"Can we talk? Privately?"

"We just talked. In a meeting. With many witnesses."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

I turned to face him. He was standing too close, his expensive cologne filling my senses with memories I'd worked hard to bury. The way he'd smiled at me in the hallway. The way I'd felt when I thought he might actually like me back. The crushing humiliation when I'd found out it was all a joke.

"I don't have anything to say to you," I said.

"Then let me say something to you. Please. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"Why should I give you anything?"

"Because I've spent five years wishing I could take back what I did. Because I was a stupid, insecure kid who did something unforgivable, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I need to at least try to explain." His voice cracked slightly. "Please, Asenath."

There was something in his eyes—genuine pain, or a very good imitation of it. And despite everything, despite all the anger and hurt and resentment, a part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. The part of me that had never gotten closure, that had replayed that night over and over in my head, trying to understand where it all went wrong.

"Not here," I said finally. "There's a coffee shop on the corner. After work. 6 PM. If you're even a minute late, I'm leaving."

"I'll be there. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I haven't decided if I'm going to listen or just throw coffee in your face."

A ghost of a smile crossed his features. "I'll take those odds."

He walked away, and I stood there in the middle of the office, feeling like I'd just agreed to something monumentally stupid.

"That looked intense."

Beryl appeared at my elbow, her expression carefully neutral.

"He wants to talk. To explain what happened in high school."

"And you agreed?"

"I don't know why. Temporary insanity. Glutton for punishment. Take your pick."

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on Kiyan's retreating figure. When she spoke again, her voice was strange, almost brittle.

"Just be careful. Okay?"

"Careful of what?"

She turned to look at me, and for a second, I saw something in her eyes that I couldn't identify. Something raw and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

"Just... be careful."

Before I could ask what she meant, she walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The rest of the day crawled by with agonizing slowness. I tried to focus on work—there were emails to send, proposals to draft, a million small tasks that required my attention—but my mind kept drifting to the meeting at 6 PM. What was Kiyan going to say? What could he possibly say that would make any of it okay?

And underneath that, another thought, persistent and troubling: what was going on with Beryl?

She'd been acting strange all day. Distant. Every time I tried to catch her eye across the office, she looked away. When I texted her asking if she wanted to get lunch, she said she had too much work. It was unlike her—Beryl, who always made time for me, who was always there when I needed her.

By the time 5:30 rolled around, I was a mess of nerves and confusion. I packed up my things slowly, watching Beryl at her desk across the room. She was staring at her computer screen, but her fingers weren't moving on the keyboard. Just sitting there. Frozen.

I walked over to her, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.

"Hey."

She looked up, her expression carefully composed. "Hey."

"I'm about to go. To meet Kiyan."

"I know."

Silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "You've been weird all day."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're doing that thing where you say you're fine but your face says you're definitely not fine."

She laughed, but it sounded forced. "I'm just tired. And worried about you, I guess. This thing with Kiyan... I don't want you to get hurt again."

"I can handle Kiyan."

"Can you?"

The question hung in the air. I didn't know how to answer it.

"I should go," I said finally. "I'll text you after. Tell you how it went."

"Yeah. Okay." She paused, then added, almost too quiet to hear: "Be careful, Asenath. With your heart."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded and walked away, feeling her eyes on my back the whole way to the door.

The coffee shop was nearly empty when I arrived—just a few stragglers nursing lattes and staring at laptop screens. I ordered a tea I didn't want and found a table in the back, away from the windows. If this conversation was going to be as uncomfortable as I expected, I didn't need an audience.

Kiyan arrived at 5:58. Two minutes early. He spotted me immediately and made his way over, his steps hesitant, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any moment.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

"I wasn't sure you'd actually show up."

"Neither was I." I gestured to the seat across from me. "Sit. Talk. You have five minutes."

He sat, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Up close, I could see the signs of stress—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Whatever he'd been doing for the past five years, it hadn't been entirely smooth sailing.

"I don't know where to start," he admitted.

"The beginning would be traditional."

He nodded, gathering his thoughts. "Do you remember the night of the winter formal? Junior year?"

As if I could forget. That night was seared into my memory, every detail preserved with painful clarity.

"I remember."

"I told you I liked you. That I wanted to be with you. And you—" He swallowed. "You said you felt the same way. And we kissed. Behind the bleachers, while everyone was inside dancing."

"I remember what happened, Kiyan. I was there."

"I know. I just..." He took a breath. "The next day, my friends found out. I don't know how—someone must have seen us, or I said something without realizing. And they started making fun of me. Saying I was punching above my weight, that you were out of my league, that you'd never actually be interested in someone like me."

I stayed silent, waiting.

"I was seventeen and terrified. My whole identity was wrapped up in what my friends thought of me. And instead of standing up for myself—for us—I panicked. I told them it was a joke. That I'd been messing with you, seeing if I could get the pretty girl to fall for me." His voice cracked. "I told them you were the one who'd thrown yourself at me, and I'd rejected you. That you weren't worth the effort."

"And they believed you."

"Everyone believed me. Because I was charming and popular and no one questioned me. And by the time I realized what I'd done—the rumors had already spread. Everyone was talking about it. Laughing about it."

"Laughing at me," I corrected. "They were laughing at me. I was the punchline of a joke I didn't even know I was part of."

"I know. And I'm so sorry, Asenath. I was a coward. I threw you under the bus to protect my own ego, and you didn't deserve any of it."

I looked at him, at this man who had once been a boy I'd thought I loved. He looked broken. Genuinely, thoroughly broken.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I've spent five years hating myself for what I did. Because every relationship I've had since then has failed, and I think it's because I know, deep down, that I'm not worthy of love. Not after what I did to you." He reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of mine. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn't your fault. That it was never your fault. You were brave enough to be vulnerable with me, and I repaid you by destroying you. That's on me. All of it."

The anger I'd been carrying for five years—that hot, burning resentment—flickered and dimmed. Not gone. Maybe not ever gone. But something shifted.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," I said honestly. "What you did... it changed me. Made me afraid to trust people. Afraid to let anyone in."

"I know."

"But I appreciate you telling me. The truth. Even if it's five years too late."

He nodded, his eyes wet. "Can we... I don't know. Start over? Not as whatever we were before. Just as colleagues. Maybe even friends, someday."

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"I don't know," I said finally. "Maybe. But it's going to take time. And you have to understand—I don't owe you anything. Not friendship. Not forgiveness. Nothing."

"I understand."

"Okay." I stood up, grabbing my bag. "I should go."

"Asenath." He stood too, his expression earnest. "For what it's worth—I really did like you. Back then. It wasn't a lie, the part where I said I wanted to be with you. That was real."

I didn't know what to do with that information. So I just nodded and walked out, leaving him standing alone in the empty coffee shop.

The walk home was long. I took the scenic route, needing time to process everything. Kiyan's confession. The pain in his voice. The truth that should have been told five years ago.

And underneath it all, a question that wouldn't leave me alone:

If he really had liked me—if that night behind the bleachers had been real—what did that mean for everything that came after?

My phone buzzed. A text from Beryl.

**Beryl:** *how did it go?*

I stared at the message for a long time before responding.

**Me:** *complicated. can we talk tomorrow?*

**Beryl:** *of course. i'm here. always.*

I put my phone away and kept walking, the city lights flickering to life around me like stars falling to earth.

I didn't have answers. Not yet. But for the first time in five years, I felt like I might be close to finding them.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered that the answers might not be what I expected.

******** To be continued*******

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