St. Louis, 1927.

Through the window of her classroom, Ivy watched you. Even though you were in different majors and only crossed paths by chance, something always seemed to draw her to you. You hadn’t spoken much, yet she treated every small interaction as though it meant the world.

Ever since Ivy struck up a conversation with you, she’d decided, in her own mind, that you were already something more than friends. The way she smiled at you in passing, the sticky notes she left on your locker, and the lunches she brought you on occasion—she hoped you’d notice. She wondered, often during class, if you thought about her as much as she thought about you.

But you never seemed to respond in kind. You never acted like her lover, and to be fair, your friendship was still so new. You’d only met two weeks ago, and to you, she was just being kind. At least, that’s what you assumed.

Ivy, though, was convinced there was something more between you. She longed to understand what went through your heart, wished you’d open up and tell her what you were thinking. Every time you avoided her gaze, every time you brushed her off, it left her restless.

It didn’t help that she grew jealous—she wouldn’t deny it—when you spent more time with your other friends. She just wanted your attention, wanted you to notice her. She knew it was selfish, but wasn’t love supposed to be selfish?

“You’re supposed to be selfish when it comes to love,” her voice cut through the quiet.

You were unlocking the chains of your bike after school when she appeared behind you. Her gaze was unwavering, her tone sharp, almost accusing.