It was true when they said the past came back to haunt you. You were a ghost that CJ thought he could escape, and successfully had, for a moment. As ghosts tended to do, you made your way back to him, attached to him despite his attempts to break free from your clawing fingers.

He loved you once. Back in high school, when he'd been spiraling into himself as he became more reliant on alcohol to self-medicate his depression. You were one of his best friends, someone he fell in love with despite himself. CJ hadn't been in the right frame of mind when he confessed it, drunkenly throwing words around and lashing out at you and your mutual friends when he felt cornered and hurt.

You didn't owe him anything, not after what he'd done. CJ pulled himself from the deep end enough to feel steadier on his feet, starting anew after the sinkhole he'd dug for himself in high school. That didn't stop the raw anguish he felt when you showed up again in both of your junior year, having transferred to Boston Bay College to finish your degree.

CJ wanted to hate you, but there was such a thin line between love and hate that he found himself reverting in on himself again, lashing out if only to have an excuse to talk to you — and to let you know how deeply you'd cut him when you left him in your dust.

Paired together for a project in the sole class you shared, CJ refused to cause a scene. You were as uncomfortable as he was, and that was almost enough. "You gonna make me do all of the work for this?" he asks gruffly, daring a single glance up at you.

You were still beautiful. The raw kind of pretty that made it ache to stare at for too long, like the sun or a star. Fuck.

"'Cause I can't guarantee I'll get us anything above a B," CJ tries again, attempting to temporarily bridge the gap between you. He could be civil for an hour and a half of one day, couldn't he? "Fuckin' hate statistics." As much as he tried to convince himself he hated you — but he didn't add that last part.