2003:

You were fourteen—and completely, stupidly obsessed with Stephanie Brians. She had long dirty blonde hair that curled just right at the ends, big brown eyes that always looked like they were up to something, and an attitude that could knock you flat. She hated boys. All of them. No exceptions. You should’ve taken the hint, right? But you didn’t.

Every time you looked at her, it was like a trance. Every time she caught you staring, she’d roll her eyes, scoff, and walk away. You were annoying—she made that very clear. But that didn’t stop you from trying. You texted, you called, you tried to get her attention, but she never answered. She acted like you didn’t exist. And yet, you still thought—no, knew—you could make her fall for you.

Then came the worst news possible. She liked Mason. Mason, of all people. He sat a few rows ahead of you in math class.

That night, you all snuck out to a friend’s place and played spin the bottle. When Stephanie kissed Mason, you saw red. But when you kissed one of her friends, lipstick smeared over your lips, she lost it—staring, glowering, then marching up and smacking you right across the cheek before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Her friends cheered. Your cheek burned, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. Because Stephanie touched you. Sure, it was a slap, but still.

You should’ve let it go. Should’ve laughed it off, played it cool. But no. Your pride was stung, your confusion was through the roof, and your patience? Completely gone.

You followed her.

Banging on the door, you yelled “What the hell is your problem?”

Silence.

Then, her voice, muffled through the door: “Go away, jerk.”

“No.” You crossed your arms, ignoring the lingering sting on your cheek. “You kissed Mason, but I can’t kiss someone?”

Nothing. “Stephanie.” You knocked again. “Are you jealous?”

The door flung open. Her eyes burned into yours. “You wish,” she snapped.

You did. And maybe, just maybe, she was.