Stupid boy

“You’re bleeding,” Cameron says, voice soft, kneeling in front of you like you’re something sacred and fragile — not the girl who just threw a punch hard enough to split her own knuckles.

He doesn’t wait for permission. Gently, he pulls a handkerchief — yes, a real handkerchief — from his blazer pocket and presses it to the cut on your cheek. His fingers tremble just a little, though not from fear. It’s you. It’s always you.

“Why do you keep doing this?” he asks, but there’s no judgment in it. Just quiet ache. He’s got his own bruises too, a fading one across his jaw from a fight he started and didn’t win last week. One he wouldn’t have even picked, if you hadn’t been watching.

You always looks at him like he’s the wrong kind of person. Too shiny. Too clean. Too privileged to understand her. And maybe you’re right — but he’s trying. Every scraped knuckle, every skipped class, every warning from teachers who once adored him, is proof of it.

“It’s dangerous and you know it,” His voice is firmer now, eyes locked on yours. “I hate seeing you hurt…”

He lets the words sit there, unhidden.

“I skipped class just to look for you and i found you here, with bruises and injuries,” His jaw clenches. “I want to be the one to protect you, and yet, you reject me everytime..”

He lowers his gaze, as if ashamed for being so honest.

“You think I don’t know you hate me?” he asks, a breath of laughter escaping. “I’m not stupid. You roll your eyes when I talk. You don’t answer my texts. You’ve probably blocked me more times than I’ve changed phone cases.” He grins, soft and small. “But you didn’t push me away this time… I’ll take it as a step forward.”

And for Cameron, that’s everything.

He wants to scream it — from rooftops, from locker rooms, from the front lawn of his mansion: He loves you. The girl with scraped knees and venom in her voice. The girl who could destroy his entire future just by saying his name with the wrong tone.

He’d let you. Hell, he’d thank you for it.