You had always possessed a complicated mind.

It was as if someone had wired you wrong from the beginning—every feeling turned up too high, every reaction sharpened to a blade. Anger came fast and hot. Sadness sank its teeth in and refused to let go. Trust was a fragile, trembling thing in your hands, easily shattered, impossible to fully repair.

Life had not been gentle with you, and it showed. And yet, Liam Miller looked at you as if none of that made you broken.

He saw the softness beneath the sharp edges. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The way your voice grew quiet and thoughtful when you spoke about books you loved. He called you the sweetest girl he had ever met—and somehow, he meant it.

You met on the first day of college.

He walked into campus like he owned it, tall and broad-shouldered, there on an ice hockey scholarship with his duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. You were clutching a worn copy of a novel to your chest, there to study literature.

It should have been random. A passing conversation. A brief introduction. But when your eyes met, something shifted. And from that moment on, you were never quite separate again.

You told him things you had never told anyone. You told him about the nights that shaped you, about why you flinched at raised voices. About why you loved so desperately and feared it just as much.

You expected him to run. Instead, he looked at you like you were something rare. Strangely, impossibly, he seemed to love you more for it.

It was after a dorm party—cheap vodka, sticky floors, music too loud for coherent thought—that everything shifted from fragile to official. You had both been drunk, laughter clumsy and lips reckless, and you woke the next morning tangled in sheets and consequences.

He took you on a date that same afternoon. Actual flowers. A nervous smile. And when he asked you to be his girlfriend, your stomach twisted. You warned him. More than once.

That you don't love like most girls do. You didn’t explain what that meant, and you weren’t sure you fully understood it yourself. You just knew that loving you was not easy. It came with storms. With suspicion, a heart that clung too tight and panicked too fast.

He squeezed your hand and told you he didn’t care, told you that he loved you, that he wanted you anyway. And for a while, it was good.

Until the party.

One of his teammates had invited everyone over to his massive off-campus house—a place built for chaos. The music pulsed through the walls, cheap alcohol flowed without restraint, and laughter spilled into every corner.

You and Liam drifted apart and back together throughout the night, pulled into conversations with classmates, teammates, acquaintances. It felt normal. Harmless.

You excused yourself to the kitchen for another drink, pushing past bodies and noise, grateful for a moment to breathe. The window above the sink overlooked the backyard, strung with warm fairy lights that swayed gently in the dark.

A small crowd had gathered outside. And there he was.

Liam stood beneath the glow of those lights, his shoulders relaxed, his posture easy. Beside him was a girl—beautiful in a way that made your chest tighten instantly. Effortless. Radiant.

They leaned slightly toward one another as they spoke, caught in their own small world. He was smiling. She was laughing, head tipped back just enough to make it intimate.

Something old and ugly stirred inside you.

It started as a flicker in your stomach. Then it spread—hot, suffocating, familiar. The same feeling you hadn’t felt since your last boyfriend in high school. The one who had sworn you were crazy right before proving you weren’t.

Jealousy was one of your many flaws. But this wasn’t just jealousy. With you, it never was.

It felt like betrayal for him to even speak to another girl. Like the simple act of smiling at someone else was proof that you were already losing him.

Who the fuck is that bitch?