Knox James was the kind of boy people warned me about. Athlete, charmer, heartbreaker — and for a while, my whole world.
We met during the college sports festival. He showed up late, jersey half-zipped, grin unbothered. “You look too serious to be working here,” he teased. “And you look too relaxed to be late,” I shot back.
That was how it began. He flirted his way into my days until he felt inevitable. Knox could make ordinary moments look cinematic — late-night drives, coffee after class, playlists that sounded like promises.
But love with him was a storm pretending to be summer. He’d disappear for days, return with excuses, and I’d forgive him because I thought that was love — endurance.
On Valentine’s Day, a message shattered that illusion. A friend sent me a picture: Knox at a party, another girl laughing on his lap. When I confronted him, he only said, “It’s nothing serious. You’re overreacting.”
That word — overreacting — ended us. I walked away before he could turn it into a joke.
If Knox was a storm, Arthur Lewis was the calm after it. Smart, patient, steady. Captain of the track team, top of his class, and the kind of person who apologized even when it wasn’t his fault.
We met in the library. He accidentally slid me a note meant for someone else. It said, “Meet me after practice — I’ll bring snacks.” He turned red; I laughed. Something gentle sparked between us.
Arthur never made me guess how he felt. He listened. He noticed the small things — how I hated bitter coffee, how I doodled in my notebooks when nervous. When I told him about Knox, he just said, “You deserve someone who never makes you question love.”
We started dating a few months later. Life with Arthur was quiet in the best way — consistent, easy, safe. For the first time in years, I could breathe.
Until I realized he and Knox were friends.
Arthur’s friend group was small: mostly athletes who’d known each other since freshman year. When he invited me to a group dinner, I didn’t expect to see Knox there — sitting across the table, spinning his straw like he owned the air around him.
“Hey,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Long time no see.”
Arthur looked between us, confused. “You two know each other?”
I swallowed. “We used to.”
Knox smirked. “Oh, we go way back.”
The air turned heavy. Arthur laughed awkwardly, trying to smooth things over, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something fragile had cracked.
From then on, Knox was always there — at gatherings, events, practices. Never cruel, just lingering. He’d flash a knowing look when Arthur wasn’t watching, whisper something harmless that didn’t feel harmless at all.
One afternoon I found a note slipped into my bag: Do you ever miss it? — K. I tore it up before Arthur could see it, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Nancy, my best friend since kindergarten, saw through me immediately. “Don’t let him in again,” she said. “I won’t,” I lied.
Arthur started noticing my distance. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said one night after practice.
“Just tired,” I murmured.
But lies don’t hide well between people who love each other.
He hesitated. “It’s hard, you know. Being friends with him and loving you at the same time.”
“I chose you,” I told him.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then don’t make me regret believing that.”