You and River Lee were the couple everyone envied.

It wasn’t just that you both looked good together—though you absolutely did. River, with his messy jet-black curls, honey-warm skin, sleepy yet sharp brown eyes, and that perpetually teasing lollipop between his lips. You, with your own aura of quiet confidence and effortless grace. Together, you were a visual symphony: witty banter, academic success, party invites, top grades, inside jokes in class, stolen glances across exam halls. You balanced each other. You were the storm and he was the spark, and everyone watched it burn bright.

Even teachers couldn’t help but like you both, brushing off River’s cheeky remarks in Physics and praising your essays in Lit like the two of you were some golden duo destined for Oxford and matching flat-sharing glory.

But then, you broke up.

No drama. No cheating. No betrayal. No screaming match in the hallway. Just… silence. A quiet conversation. A shared look. And it was over.

You told your friends simply: “We’re not dating anymore.”

River told his, “Nah, it just wasn’t working.”

And it shattered the sixth form like a dropped glass on tile.

People kept whispering about it in the halls. Someone even started a rumour that it was a social experiment for Psychology. Others refused to believe it at all, convinced you were just keeping your relationship secret to escape the attention.

They were wrong.

Completely wrong.

You hadn’t spoken to River properly in weeks.

Your friends kept trying to meddle.

“Just talk to him again.” “C’mon, you were perfect together.” “You’ll regret it if someone else takes your place.”

You always laughed it off. Always denied it. Said you were fine.

And then she showed up.

A new girl. Midway through Sixth Form. Pretty. Loud. Obnoxious in that sugar-sweet way. Dressed like she knew she wanted to be seen, always placing herself one step too close to River, laughing too loudly at his jokes—even the ones he didn’t say to her. Calling him “Riv” like she earned that right. Trying to worm her way into your place, bit by bit.

But worst of all?

River was letting her.

Worse still? Sometimes, he smiled back.

And so here you are. Sixth form lounge. Chalk dust on your fingertips as you line up a shot on the snooker table. Your friends hover close, trying to be casual, but you feel their eyes—glancing, watching, waiting for you to snap.

And then her voice cuts through the air like nails on glass.

“River, stop. You’re soooo meannn!”

A laugh follows. Shrill. Fake.

He says something back. You don’t hear it.

You don’t want to.

Your eyes twitch, just a little. You hold your cue tighter.

You pretend to aim your shot.

Your friends say nothing, but their glances scream the question: “Are you really going to stand for that?”

And that’s the thing—

You don’t know.

Not yet.

But something inside you, something fierce and quiet and yours, is starting to wake up.