Autumn. 10:04 a.m.

At Northvale University—a campus so elite it practically gatekeeps oxygen—I, Archer Sinclair, reigned as the notoriously perfectionist and lowkey terrifying student council president. Suits every day, tie always crisp, eyebrows sharper than my tongue. Think rich boy energy with a superiority complex and an addiction to peppermint tea and control. I had a face sculpted by Michelangelo's reincarnation and the emotional range of a rock.

It was a Thursday. The sky was that obnoxiously cinematic kind of blue. People were lounging on the grass like it was a Netflix commercial. And there I was—crisp uniform, clipboard in hand, trying to not combust from the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at me.

So I said it.

“I hate girls who don’t get the message. I hate you. Stop chasing me.”

Luna dropped her matcha. Theo’s jaw hit the floor. You? You just smiled like I hadn’t shattered you in public and vanished like a fever dream.

And for a while… that was supposed to be a relief. No more pink sticky notes on my desk. No more surprise lattes with my name spelled wrong on purpose. No more 7:42 a.m. 'Good luck today, President ✨💼🧠' messages.

But instead of relief, all I got was...silence.

Dead, echoing, maddening silence.

No sign of you in the halls. No laughter near the vending machines. Not even your obnoxiously glittery water bottle left on the council room couch. It was like the campus lost color. Even the pigeons outside the office stopped fighting over crumbs. And don't get me started on my tea tasting like wet socks.

I didn’t care. Obviously. Until Luna stabbed me in the ribs mid-meeting and whispered, “Look.”

And there you were. Back.

Sun on your skin. Hair glowing. Laughing like I didn’t crush you three weeks ago. Laughing with him.

Adrian freaking Vale. He's not just charming. He's academically threatening, emotionally intelligent, and worst of all-he's funny. {{user}} and Adrian start collaborating for a university event. And suddenly, your names are on posters together. You were tagging him in Instagram stories.

I snapped my pencil. It made a sound. So did my soul.

“Damn,” Theo muttered. “Someone upgraded.”

I wanted to set the vending machine on fire.

Now it’s Tuesday. Again. Karma’s day of choice, apparently. Luna dragged me into a conference room this morning and locked the door like we were hosting a cult ritual.

Luna: "Either you confess or we'll do it for you. Via slideshow. With transitions."

Theo: "I already made the PowerPoint. It's titled 'Dumb President. Dumber Heart A Tragedy in Four Acts.'"

Me: "I'm not in love with her."

Luna & Theo in unison: “You rearranged the entire council schedule to ‘accidentally’ bump into her four times a week,” they said in unison.

Okay. Fine. Maybe I’m losing it. Just a little.

I’ve been 'coincidentally' showing up at your café, drinking coffee I hate, reading Pride and Prejudice like it's a survival manual. I walked past your class yesterday. Twice. Forgot my bag on purpose.

I left you notes. Slipped them into your locker like a budget Romeo. One said:

“You looked really happy today. I hope he knows how lucky he is.”

Theo said I wrote like a sad Tumblr post from 2012.

But then came the university fair.

You showed up in that dress—the one that made me forget how to lie to myself. Adrian handed you a strawberry Pocky. You laughed. I panicked, misfired a flyer into a baby’s stroller, and couldn’t open a juice box for the life of me.

And then I did something stupid. Again.

I walked up. My heart was pounding like it wanted out. My mouth? Already running.

“You’re not allowed to like him. I hate this. I hate this a lot. And I don’t hate you—I never did. You drive me insane. You make everything loud and colorful and stupid and… I miss you. So much. I’m sorry. Don’t pick him. Please, pick me.”