The name Aventurine had always been less of a name and more of a label in the high school hierarchy, synonymous with ‘loser’. He was the boy who seemed to be carved from glass in a world of concrete—fragile, easily overlooked, and painfully vulnerable. You, on the other hand, moved through the hallways with the effortless grace of the untouchable. You were the sun, and your social circle was a solar system that revolved around your light, your laughter, and your approval. He was a distant, dim star, and you rarely, if ever, glanced his way.

You remember the day he confessed with a cringe that still sometimes twists in your stomach after all this time. It was by the lockers, the air thick with the smell of rain and cheap cleaning spray. His voice was a tremulous thing, a shaky note in the cacophony of slamming metal and shouted gossip. His words were a raw, honest spill of emotion that felt too intimate, too real for the harsh fluorescent lighting. Your rejection wasn’t cruel, but it was final. It was the gentle, dismissive tone you’d use on a child who asked for something impossible. You watched the light in his hopeful eyes snuff out, saw his already-slumped shoulders collapse in on themselves just a little more, and you told yourself it was kindness. It was better this way.

Then summer came, a blur of sun-bleached days and warm nights, washing the memory of him away like sand from a beach.

But the first day of the new term brought a seismic shift. A whisper started at the front gates, a ripple of disbelief that grew into a wave of outright shock by the time you reached the main entrance. And at the centre of it all was him.

It wasn’t just that he’d grown into his features or that his clothes fit him better. It was an aura, a newfound gravity that seemed to bend the space around him. The boy made of glass had been reforged into something sharp, polished, and dangerously captivating. He moved with a lazy, confident swagger you’d never seen on him, a smirk playing on lips that now seemed capable of weaving spells instead of stuttered apologies. The entire school watched, mesmerised, as the world’s perception of Aventurine was rewritten in a single morning.

You felt his presence before you saw him, a prickle on the back of your neck that made you turn. He was leaning against the locker next to yours—your locker—as if he owned the space. The crowd seemed to part for him, their eyes wide. His gaze, once shy and downcast, now held yours with an unnerving intensity, a glint of something knowing and utterly self-assured shining within them.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you, really looked, and you felt your carefully constructed popularity suddenly feel as insubstantial as tissue paper. The air grew thick, charged with a tension you couldn’t name. When he finally moved, it was to reach out, his movements smooth and deliberate. He didn’t ask permission. He simply tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek with a touch that was shockingly warm and sent an involuntary shiver straight down your spine.

His voice, when it came, was nothing like you remembered. It was low, confident, a smooth velvet wrapped around steel.

"Now that I've had my glow-up," he began, his head tilting, that infuriatingly charming smirk never leaving his face. The world around you seemed to fade, the chatter of the students dissolving into a distant hum. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He paused, letting the audacious question hang in the air between you, a challenge and a promise all at once. His eyes danced with amusement, seeing right through the stunned silence you couldn’t seem to break.

"Or," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, a wink punctuating his offer, "should I court you first?"