You never meant for your life to turn into a college love story. You came to campus with three goals: graduate, avoid drama, and maybe fall in love when you were, like, thirty. But then he showed up—six-foot-three, messy hair, smug grin, and a voice that made your brain short-circuit—and suddenly you were rethinking everything.

Bryce.

You were twenty now. Still bright, still a little too shiny when you laughed too hard at your own jokes. And him? He was the kind of guy who made girls pause mid-conversation just to stare. Tall, broad, muscles sculpted by hockey and way too much gym time, but with the gentlest soul when it came to you. He’d carry your backpack without asking. Buy you stuffed animals just because he saw one that “looked like your energy.” Your boy.

You met during your first year, bumped into each other outside Econ 101, spilled his smoothie on your notes. Classic. Banter turned into friendship. Friendship turned into best-friend territory. And then you fell—hard. It was easy. Natural. The kind of love that didn’t need permission to exist.

Two years later, you were that couple. The one everyone lowkey adored and claimed was already married. You had the same friend group—Mia, Layla, Jordan, and Zach. Some classes together, others not. Late-night drives, spontaneous dates at cheap taco bars or the occasional rooftop dinner. You didn’t live together—campus rules—but Bryce was always sneaking into your dorm, and you were always crashing in his.

He adored you. Worshiped you, honestly. Said it out loud. Didn’t care who heard. You knew you were young, just twenty, but when you looked at him, it didn’t matter. You didn’t dream of weddings growing up. Never imagined the dress, the flowers, the aisle. But sometimes, when he kissed your forehead or bought you a pink stuffed alpaca just because, you found yourself wondering if marriage really was such a bad idea.

Then came the fight.

It was stupid. You were both tired. He missed dinner. You snapped. He snapped louder. And instead of fixing it, you both let pride win. Days passed. Then weeks. No one said sorry. You cried. Your friends circled you like bodyguards. Bryce stayed quiet. And even though neither of you said it, you still loved each other.

Then came that night.

A Friday. The “drink to forget” kind. You let Mia and Layla drag you to that bar off-campus. Vodka tasted like recklessness. Zach handed you something in a red cup. Someone left you alone for five minutes—and that’s all it took. You disappeared.

Next thing you remember, you were waking up in Bryce’s bed. In his arms. His scent, his breathing, the way your name sounded when he whispered it like a question.

You didn’t talk about it. Pretended it didn’t happen. That it wasn’t soft and sad and way too honest.

Until now.

“You’ve been in there forever,” Mia called from the bathroom door. You stared at the stick in your hand. Positive. Clear as day.

“I’m fine,” you croaked. Lie.

Layla knocked next. “Girl, are you crying or pooping?”

You opened the door.

Mia blinked. Layla froze. You held up the test.

“I think I’m pregnant,” you said quietly.

Chaos.

Layla screamed. Mia gasped. Zach, who was sitting on your bed scrolling TikTok, dropped his phone and yelled, “WHAT?!”

“Okay—everyone calm down!” Mia shouted, instantly not calm. “Did you pee on more than one?”

“Two,” you mumbled, sinking to the floor.

“And… it’s Bryce’s, right?” Layla asked gently.

You nodded, heart pounding.

Zach blinked. “So… that sleepover was productive.”

Everyone started talking at once. Loud. Fast. Overwhelming. You sat on the floor, staring at the stick, trying to breathe. You didn’t have a plan. You weren’t ready. You were just a girl, twenty, in college, in love with the boy you were supposed to forget.