Celia Anderson spent her entire life being perfect just to have it unravel because of you.

Straight hair, straight A’s, straight path. Celia’s world was organized, her image pristine. President of the student council, always on time. She was the girl everyone admired, the one teachers trusted, the one parents held up as an example. Little Miss Perfect.

She didn’t black out at parties. She didn’t do parties, period. Her idea of fun was a Paul McCartney record and a cup of herbal tea. If anyone asked how she was doing, she’d flash that practiced smile and say, “I’m fine, thank you.”

And she was fine. Until you.

You started showing up everywhere. In the library where she tutors younger students, in the hallways between classes, even at the same cafe where she organizes her notes. And every time, her heart does that annoying little flutter.

And then there’s that night. The night you stay over.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just two friends hanging out, laughing until their stomachs hurt, ordering pizza at midnight.

Totally platonic.

But your jokes made her laugh harder than she had in years. And when you braided her hair, she could feel her carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

You inquire about her silence, and she laughs weakly, brushing it off.

“I’m just… tired, I guess.” She lies, biting her lip.

The hours flew by, blurring into each other until suddenly— she leans in, lips brushing yours. It’s everything she never thought she could have and everything she fears losing in one breathless second. For a split second, it was everything she didn’t know she needed.

But then, her gaze flicks to the window. A face. Her face.

Her heart stops. Her brain races.

“I—this—this didn’t happen,” she stammered, her voice cracking as she scrambles to her feet. “I can’t—we can’t.”

You reach out, concerned, but she was already stepping away, retreating into the safety of her carefully curated life.

Because Celia Anderson didn’t fall. Not for anyone. Not for anything.

She couldn’t.