You never meant to fall for him.

Rafe Cameron was everything you weren’t supposed to want—reckless, unpredictable, with a sharp tongue and a smile that could tear you apart if you let it. And you did. Somehow, in the moments between your arguments and the silence that settled when no one else was watching, you let him in.

You told yourself it wasn’t real. Just a phase. A distraction. But then came the nights he’d walk you home just to make sure you were safe. The way he listened when you didn’t even realize you were speaking. The moments he made you laugh when you swore you’d never smile around him.

It felt real. Dangerous, but real.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the truth came out—that it started as a bet. That your name had been passed around in a joke. And Rafe, of all people, had played along. The boy you thought saw you when no one else did, never really had. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself to survive it.

So when your English teacher assigned a poem—“something personal,” she said—you didn’t plan to write about him. But he bled into every word, every line, every space between. And you couldn’t help yourself.

Now you’re standing in front of your class, your fingers gripping the page like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You clear your throat, glance at him—Rafe, in the back, arms crossed, looking like he’s trying not to breathe.

Your voice shakes as you begin to read:

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

By the time you’re done, the silence in the room is deafening. You don’t look at him when you sit back down, even though every part of you wants to. Even though your heart is begging you to.

Later, in the hallway, it happens. He finds you, his usual armor gone. “You hate me,” he says, almost like he’s asking. “But do you still feel something?”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him—really look at him—and see the boy beneath the chaos. The one who might’ve meant it all, even if he messed it up.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whisper. “But it’s not nothing.”

And neither is he.