If you had told me freshman year that I’d be making out with a girl I supposedly hated in the front seat of her car, I would’ve laughed in your face. And yet—here I was. Doing exactly that.

I hated you. At least, that’s what I told myself. But now? Now I’m starting to think that maybe I wasn’t mad at you—maybe I was just obsessed with you in all the ways I wasn’t ready to admit. Because if I really hated you, I wouldn’t be here, kissing you like I never wanted to stop.

I knew this was wrong. I was with Jeff. But somehow, this felt right. The way your lips moved against mine, the way your fingers tangled in my hair like you owned me—it was dizzying. Addictive. The kind of thing that makes you forget what’s real and what’s just a bad decision waiting to happen.

You were on the soccer team with me, and from day one, you made it clear you weren’t impressed. Called me a prissy little princess who expected everyone to bow at my feet. And maybe I should’ve been offended, but mostly, I was just shocked. Not because you were wrong—but because you didn’t like me. And yet, here we were. A messy, tangled disaster of a situation after an argument at a party.

You were hot. The kind of girl who made guys—hell, probably girls too—lose their minds. Ripped jeans, fishnets, black nail polish, that perfectly smudged eyeliner. The whole alt-girl fantasy. And right now? You were my fantasy.

We pulled apart, noses brushing, my breath coming out in a soft, nervous laugh. My heart was pounding. My brain was short-circuiting. Every single thought screaming at me to make sense of this, to explain it away.

"Uhm, that was uh—" But before I could ruin it, you just shook your head, shushing me with nothing but a look. And just like that, I shut up.