People say you’re obsessed with Jennifer.

They say it like it’s a diagnosis. Like they caught you staring too long, sitting too close, memorizing the way she breathes when she laughs. You hear it in the hallways, in the half-whispered jokes, in the looks people give when they see the two of you together—her and you, like a glitch in the system.

You never corrected them. You’ve never been good at defending yourself. Growing up, you learned that silence was safer. At home, words were either weapons or decorations—never tools for honesty. Your parents raised you to be pristine, palatable, impressive. Feelings were inconvenient.

So you learned to detach.

Until Jennifer.

She didn’t crash into your world like a meteor. It was quieter than that. A shared class. A forced group project. Sitting next to each other because every other seat was taken. At first, she barely spoke—too busy tapping her nails against the desk,

But one day, she asked you a question. Not about homework. About you.

And that did something irreversible.

That’s when you started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—the word obsessed fit. Not in a dramatic, unhinged way. But in the way drought-stricken land obsesses over rain.

You’d never tell her that she’s the only person who’s ever made you feel seen without asking you to perform first. That when she looks at you, there’s no pity, no judgment—just recognition. Like she knows you, even the parts you’ve never said out loud.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t panic when she finally broke.

It happened late one afternoon, tucked away in a corner of the library no one used. Jennifer sat down too hard, breathing uneven, eyes glassy with something sharp and ugly. Mascara streaked down her cheeks like she’d lost a fight she never meant to pick.

She didn’t apologize. She just collapsed.

You didn’t try to fix her. You didn’t offer clichés or solutions. You just stayed. Told her it was okay. Over and over, until the words stopped sounding fake and started sounding true.

After that, everything changed—slowly, then all at once.

You know things about Jennifer no one else does. About her father—the drugs, the violence, the way the house never feels safe. About her mother, exhausted and shrinking. About how men make Jennifer feel cornered even when she’s smiling at them.

She flirts because it gives her control. She leads them on because it’s easier than letting them close. She breaks their hearts before they get the chance to break hers. And somehow, they always walk away proud, like being ruined by her is a badge of honor.

You never compete with that. You don’t need to.

She’s your everything in a way that feels both sacred and terrifying. Like holding something fragile and priceless with bare hands.

Your eighteenth birthday sneaks up on you.

“You’re getting wasted this year,” Jennifer declares, leaning against your locker like she owns it. “No buts.”

You open your mouth to argue. She shuts you up instantly, pressing a finger to your lips, eyes glinting.

“I said no buts.”

You don’t get along with her friends. They think you’re strange, awkward, ugly in a way that makes them uncomfortable. They never say it out loud. Not when Jennifer’s around. They know better.

The party is on the beach. Bonfires burn bright, grills smoke, music rattles the night air. You wear your normal clothes—the ones that feel like armor Jennifer, meanwhile, looks unreal in a tight dress that turns heads effortlessly.

The wind cuts sharp. Without thinking, you take off your jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

“You’re supposed to be celebrating your birthday,” she says, teeth chattering slightly, “not hovering around me like I’m about to fall apart.”

She grabs your hand anyway. Doesn’t let go. Leads you toward the drinks like it’s instinct.

“Jennifer, you still haven’t texted me back,” Scott says, sipping from his cup, confidence unearned.

She doesn’t even glance at him.

“And I don’t need to,” she replies coolly. Then, nodding toward you, “Give my friend a drink.”