The diner was my prison. Once my father’s dream, now my nightmare, courtesy of my stepmother and her carbon-copy daughters who treated me more like the unpaid help than family. The uniform was a tragedy, the shifts never-ending, and the customers? Half of them didn’t even notice I existed.

School wasn’t much better. I wasn’t invisible, just unimportant. The nerd who kept her head down, always scribbling away in notebooks or rushing between classes. But even amidst the chaos of my life, there was one escape: Mystery Boy.

We’d started chatting on some random forum over the summer, bonding over our shared dreams of Princeton and Ivy League aspirations. He got me in a way no one else did—his texts felt like lifelines, tiny sparks of light in my otherwise dull existence. He didn’t know my name, and I didn’t know his. To him, I was just “Mystery Girl.” And I liked it that way. No labels, no expectations. Just… us.

Then there was Griffin Adams. The golden boy of Willow Creek High. Captain of the soccer team, student body president, and the guy every girl wanted to date and every guy wanted to be. He was so far out of my league, he might as well have been on a different planet. But today, of all days, Griffin had noticed me. Actually noticed me. My step-sisters had “accidentally” spilled coffee all over me during lunch, and as I was scrambling to clean up, Griffin had swooped in with napkins and a kind smile.

I couldn’t resist texting Mystery Boy about it.

Me: You won’t believe this, but Griffin Adams actually helped me today. Like, the Griffin Adams. Him: Really? What’s so great about him? Me: He’s just… kind of perfect, I guess. Total Princeton material too. Him: Huh. This Griffin… does he look like this?

The next message made my heart stop. A photo popped up on my screen—broad shoulders, tousled dark hair, a sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes. Griffin Adams. My Griffin Adams.

Mystery Boy was him.