Chapter 4

After that Tuesday, I tried to hate him.

I told myself it would be easy. He was just some boy. A face. A smile. A coffee he bought for someone else. What was so special about him anyway?

He probably leaves his dirty laundry on the floor, I thought one morning, walking to class. He probably chews with his mouth open.

I imagined him being rude to a cashier. Imagined him cutting in line. Imagined him saying something cruel and laughing.

It didn't stick.

Because the truth was — I'd been watching him for weeks. And I'd never seen him be anything but... kind. Not kind to me, because he didn't know I existed. But kind to the world. Holding doors. Picking up his trash. Laughing with his friends like he actually liked them.

Maybe he's secretly boring, I tried instead.

I imagined him having no hobbies. No opinions. Just staring at his phone all day, saying nothing interesting.

But then I remembered the way his face lit up when he talked — the way his hands moved, the way he leaned in when someone was speaking. Boring people don't do that.

Fine, I told myself. Then hate him for not seeing you.

That one almost worked.

I tried to feel angry. Tried to feel bitter. How dare he walk through the world, smiling like that, making my heart stop, and never even glance my way?

But anger requires someone to blame. And he hadn't done anything wrong. He was just... living. Being himself. Existing in a way that happened to destroy me.

You can't hate someone for existing.

I gave up on hating him by Thursday.

It was the following week.

I'd stopped taking the long way to class. Stopped sitting facing the door. Stopped looking for him in every crowd. I told myself I was healing. Moving on. Becoming someone who didn't build her day around a stranger's smile.

I almost believed it.

Then I turned a corner — a real corner, not one I'd chosen, just the fastest way to my next class — and there he was.

Walking toward me.

No, no, no.

My heart slammed. My palms went damp. My feet kept moving because stopping would have been weird, would have drawn attention, would have made me look like the lovesick fool I was.

He was twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

He wasn't looking at me. Of course he wasn't. He was looking at his phone, scrolling with one thumb, the same gray hoodie, the same dark hair falling across his forehead.

Look up, I begged silently. Please. Just once. Look up.

Five feet.

He looked up.

Not at me. Not exactly. His eyes swept the hallway — casual, automatic, the way you look at a clock or a door or a window. Just taking in the space.

But for one second — one impossible, heart-stopping second — his gaze passed over my face.

He saw me.

He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Didn't stop walking. His eyes moved on. Past me. Behind me. To whatever was next.

But for that one second, he saw me.

I kept walking. Passed him. Felt the air move as he went by. Heard his footsteps fade behind me.

I didn't turn around.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might faint. My hands were shaking. My breath was gone.

He saw me.

But here was the cruel part: he didn't see me. Not really. Not the way I saw him. I was just... background. Furniture. A face in a hallway full of faces. He'd forget me by the time he reached the stairs.

I would remember that one second for the rest of my life.

That was the difference between us.

Almost, I whispered to myself. He almost looked at me.

Almost was worse than nothing. Because almost gave me hope. And hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

I walked to my class. Sat in my seat. Stared at the whiteboard without seeing it.

He saw me.

He didn't see me.

Both things were true. Neither one saved me.

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