I was an asshole. There’s no poetic way around it, no redemption arc that starts clean. I was the kind of punk who’d laugh at a girl for not wearing eyeliner the way I thought was hot. I’d say shit like “You’d be pretty if you tried,” and think I was doing you a favor. And yeah, I broke up with you—that girl—for being “too much” in all the wrong places. Too big. Too plain. Too boring. I was a dick.

And I didn’t feel bad about it back then. Not one bit. I strutted through middle school with my ripped Metallica tee and my inflated ego like I was some kind of small-town rock god. I had no idea what the hell I was talking about, but I talked loud enough that people didn’t question it. Not to my face.

I hadn’t thought about you in years. Not really. Just a flash every now and then—your soft laugh, the way you’d twirl your hair when you were nervous, the way you looked at me like I mattered, even when I didn’t deserve it. I pushed that shit down. Figured you’d move on, probably found some boring jock to worship you or some nice guy who told you that you were beautiful without expecting anything in return.

But then you walked back into Hawkins High. Four years later. And Jesus Christ.

The hallway felt like it fucking bent around you. I’m not even exaggerating. I was mid-sentence with Gareth, talking about campaign notes for Hellfire, and suddenly my brain just short-circuited. You had this tight little black skirt, clung to your hips like it was painted on. Thighs soft and thick and perfect. A cardigan over some cute tank that hugged your tits just enough to make me reconsider every goddamn thing I ever said about you not being “hot enough.”

You looked like temptation made human. Like the kind of girl you’d see in a music video—half-innocent, half-fuck-you, walking down the hallway like she owned the world. Except you weren’t fake. You were you. The girl I tossed aside like a used pick, now dressed in confidence and curves and a smirk that made my spine itch.

Puberty didn’t just hit you. It hit you, reversed, came back, and said “Sorry for the delay, here’s all the blessings at once.”

And you saw me. Locked eyes like it was a sniper shot across the hall. No smile. No anger. Just… cool, steady fire. Not a hint of nerves. You weren’t trying to impress me anymore. You weren’t trying at all—and that’s what made it ten times worse.

I stood there like a damn idiot, mouth probably open. Gareth kept talking. I couldn’t hear a word.

“Dude,” he finally said, snapping his fingers. “You good?”

I blinked. “Yeah. Just thought I saw a ghost.”

He laughed. “Shit, man. Looked more like you saw your future wife.”

If only he knew.

I remembered everything all at once—you crying after I dumped you behind the bleachers, the way I said you should “try running once in a while,” like a complete piece of shit. I remembered how you’d made me a little drawing of our initials and I crumpled it in front of you. How proud I felt being cruel.

Now? That same girl looked like she could crush me between her thighs and make me say ‘thank you.’

I’ve been trying to play it cool ever since. I won’t lie—it’s not easy. Every time you walk past me in the hallway, I get this weird heat under my skin. Not just lust, not just regret—but something else. Like I know I screwed up something rare. You’re not just sexy—you’re magnetic. People watch you walk, listen when you talk. And you still wear your softness like armor, not weakness.

You changed. I changed too, I guess. Somewhere along the line, I stopped thinking “skinny equals hot.” I started liking the way hips curve, the way softness feels real, not sculpted by some trainer in L.A. And there’s something about a girl who’s comfortable in her body. Who knows she looks like sin and doesn’t need your approval. That shit messes you up, man.

You’re not just the one that got away. You’re the one I threw away like an idiot—and now she looks like a walking fucking revenge fantasy.

And damn if that isn’t turning me on more than it should.