SANDRA'S POV
I watched Luna storm off like an emotionally unstable toddler who just got told ice cream wasn't dinner.
Seriously. I'd only just gotten involved in this disaster of a best-friends-mess and I was already tired. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually because I don't know where to start.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "This girl's gonna make me age in dog years."
Beside me, Travis bounced his basketball lazily and frowned. "I still don't get why they're fighting."
I turned to him, brows raised. "You serious? This all started the minute Mr. Tall Dark & Broody showed up."
"Hardin?"
I gave him a look that screamed duh.
Travis shrugged. "Yeah… I know. I just didn't know how to say it."
I did a dramatic double take. "Travis!"
"What?" he blinked innocently.
"You knew?!"
He had the audacity — the audacity — to smirk. "Didn't also expect someone like you would figure it out though."
I stared at him, horrified.
"You did not just say that," I gasped.
He laughed. Like belly-laughed.
The nerve. Third-year Travis — who still couldn't iron a shirt — mocking me, a full-fledged final year student who had survived statistics and heartbreaks.
"Y'all disrespectful," I muttered. "It's not easy to be a final year student, you know. Show some respect."
"Calm down, Princess."
"Don't call me that."
…But yeah, my smile betrayed me. I hated that it was actually funny.
There was a beat of silence before Travis turned a little serious.
"You know…"
I narrowed my eyes. "You know what?"
He sighed. Deeply. Like someone about to drop a full-on Netflix twist.
"I'm not supposed to tell you this but…" he hesitated. "I think I've been quiet too long. And maybe that's why things are going this way."
I watched him closely now, heart slowing. He sighed, tossing the basketball between his hands like a distraction.
"Steven likes Luna. Always has. Maybe he didn't say it out loud, but he never had to. We all saw it. The way he looks at her, talks to her… acts like she's his entire to-do list."
I blinked, silent.
"He never confessed. Said he didn't wanna ruin what they had. Wasn't sure if she liked him back. So he waited. Smiled. Stayed close." Travis glanced up at the sky like he was hoping for divine support. "Then Hardin came along with his gloomy vampire aura and... Luna starts acting different. Steven couldn't handle it. Dude snapped."
My mouth opened, but no words came out.
"I thought it was the usual Steven-and-Luna drama," Travis continued, "you know, those 5-minute arguments that end with her buying him snacks or him singing some sad love song till she forgives him."
I nodded slowly. Yeah… that was their thing.
"But this time…" Travis looked me in the eyes. "This time it's different. Deeper. Steven's not okay. And honestly? I don't know what to do anymore."
I exhaled, heart heavy. The puzzle pieces in my head were finally clicking together, and I suddenly hated how clear it all was now.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
**************************************
LUNA'S POV
I was in the middle of what I can only describe as a fully catered emotional breakdown.
Storming off to only God knows where like I had a personal contract with drama. People were staring. A woman clutched her purse tighter. I probably looked like the rejected extra from an action movie who went rogue and snapped halfway through the plot.
But I didn't care.
My throat was tight. My chest burned. And worse — my eyes were starting to tearup.
No, no, no. Not here. Not in public. I hated crying. Especially when people noticed and tried to console me like I was a stray puppy who lost its squeaky toy.
Ugh. Disgusting.
The Resource Hub came into view and I darted inside like it owed me emotional shelter. I climbed the spiral stairs in a blur, fists clenched, breathing harsh. I was halfway to sobbing and I hated that even more than the crying itself.
Once I reached the top floor, I just saw a door and pushed it open. A quiet little library room — dimly lit and barely used — slammed the door shut behind me, and slumped against it like the dramatic heroine I was slowly becoming.
"I need a break," I whispered to no one, breathing like I'd just escaped a telenovela fire scene.
I hugged my knees, buried my face, and just existed there for a moment. And somehow, the silence helped. Everything softened. The chaos faded. And my breathing leveled.
After a while, I stood, dusted my hoodie off like I hadn't just fallen apart, and reached for the door.
But just as my hand touched the handle, I heard a voice—
"You leaving already?"
I froze.
My head slowly turned like I was in a horror movie and absolutely about to die next.
"Hello?" I called softly. No reply.
Okay. Nope. What the actual paranormal was this?
But of course, because I have zero survival instinct, I tiptoed back into the room. Not away. Into.
I should honestly be banned from making choices unsupervised.
That's when I noticed a faint light coming from a side corridor — a study nook, barely visible from the main door. I crept toward it, heart in my throat.
And there he was.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Fingers typing lazily on a laptop like he owned the air.
"Hardin?" I blinked, stepping forward, unsure if this was real or just grief-induced hallucination.
He didn't even flinch. Didn't turn around.
"If it isn't the pest herself," he muttered, calm and flat, like I hadn't just gone full Shakespearean meltdown twenty seconds ago.
Why is this guy always around when my life is falling apart? Why does he appear like a villain with a side career in psychic haunting?
This guy is 100% a witch. A smug, dangerous, emotionally disruptive witch.
And worst of all?
He looked good.
I hate myself.
My feet were officially glued to the floor.
Hardin still hadn't looked at me. Just sitting there, typing like I wasn't standing here unraveling like cheap yarn in a discount store.
Shattered. Confused. And totally regretting every decision that had led me to this cursed moment — including being born, possibly.
"Why are you always in weird, creepy places?" I blurted, because apparently my mouth doesn't ask my brain for permission anymore.
He didn't turn. "Why are you always the one finding me in them?"
Touché.
I folded my arms — because clearly that was going to protect my soul from the psychologicalearthquake that is named Hardin. "I wasn't looking for you," I mumbled. "I just… needed space."
That got him.
His fingers paused mid-keystroke. His back straightened, barely, but enough for me to notice. A sliver of attention.
Then came the chuckle. That low, sly, infuriatingly smug chuckle.
"That's impressive," he said, still not facing me. "The littlepest neededspace."
There it was again. That way he spoke — like he was reading the fine print of my heart contract and laughing at the terms and conditions.
I exhaled slowly and stepped closer. Not too close, just… close enough. In case I burst into tears. Or self-combusted.
And then — finally — he turned.
My mistake.
Because the moment those eyes met mine, it felt like they could see right through me. The nerves. The heartbreak. The hurricane spinning somewhere behind my ribs.
I dropped my gaze instantly. Because wow. Bad decision. Bad. Abort mission.
He stood up.
Slowly.
Maddeningly.
With the grace of a villain who just realized he didn't need a weapon to be dangerous.
And then—he was in front of me.
Three inches of air. That's all that separated us. Three traitorous inches.
"Now tell me," he said, voice lower now, quieter, like it curled around my spine. "You needed space… from what?"
Oh, crap.
Why did I say it so casually? Why did I talk like I was in a therapy session run by Satan's hot intern?
If I wanted to survive this Mr. Tall Dark and Broody experience, I needed to start calculating my words like I was solving calculus under surveillance. One wrong phrase and I'm emotionally evicted.
My mouth opened — and nothing came out.
Because how do you say I needed space from caring too much?
From Steven?
From… you?