Chapter 2
She stayed seated.
Desks scraped against the floor as everyone else stood, laughter buzzing like insects in her ears. Someone whispered her name. Someone else laughed. She didn't look up. If she did, she knew she'd see him—or worse, the pity in everyone else's eyes.
Her fingers were clenched around the edge of her skirt, knuckles pale.
That was it, she told herself.
That humiliation was the end.
Just an hour ago, his voice had been calm. Too calm.
"Don't misunderstand," he had said, eyes cold, bored. "I don't like you. And confessing like that in class? You really don't know how to read the room."
The class had gone silent for half a second.
Then the laughter came.
Now, the classroom was empty.
She finally stood, shoulders trembling, and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was dull gray, like it had given up on color. She pressed her forehead against the glass, breathing slowly.
I won't cry, she promised herself.
Not because of him.
She replayed every small moment she had mistaken for kindness. The time he returned her notebook. The way he once waited for the rain to stop—not for her, just coincidence.
The hallway felt longer than usual.
Every step echoed too loudly, like the school itself was reminding her that everyone had heard. Lockers lined the walls, their metal doors reflecting fragments of her—downcast eyes, stiff posture, a girl pretending she wasn't breaking.
She kept walking.
Someone laughed behind her. Maybe it wasn't about her. Maybe it was. She didn't turn around to find out.
At the stairwell, she stopped.
Her chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. She pressed a hand over her mouth, nails biting into her skin, grounding herself.
Don't cry here.
Not where they can see.
She climbed to the rooftop.
The door creaked as she pushed it open, and cold wind rushed past her, tugging at her hair and sleeves. The sky was heavy with clouds, the kind that threatened rain but never quite delivered.
She walked to the fence and gripped it, staring down at the schoolyard below. Students looked so small from up here. Insignificant.
Just like she felt now.
"I really liked you," she murmured, voice barely audible over the wind. "I tried so hard not to."
Her throat burned.
She remembered how her heart used to race whenever he entered the room. How she'd straighten her posture without realizing it. How his name alone had been enough to make her smile.
Now it just hurt.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from her best friend: Where are you? Are you okay?
She stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed back:
I'm fine.
A lie. But an easier one.
She slid down against the fence and sat on the cold concrete, pulling her knees to her chest. Her shoulders finally sagged, the strength she'd been forcing herself to wear slipping away.
"I won't like him anymore," she whispered again, as if repetition would make it true.
"I won't… I won't…"
Her voice broke on the last word.
Tears fell—silent, unstoppable—dotting the ground beneath her. She didn't wipe them away. There was no one here to see. No one to judge.
After a while, the crying stopped.
Not because the pain was gone—but because she was tired.
She stood slowly, wiping her face with her sleeve, eyes dull but steady.
From today on, she decided, she would keep her distance. No more glances. No more waiting for him to notice her. If loving him meant losing herself, then she'd choose to let go—even if it hurt more than holding on.
As she turned to leave the rooftop, she didn't notice the classroom window below.
And she didn't see the figure standing there—silent, watching the empty rooftop a second too long, expression unreadable.
The rooftop door opened with a soft bang.
She flinched and wiped her face quickly, turning just as hurried footsteps crossed the concrete.
"There you are."
Her best friend stood a few steps away, breathing a little hard, hair slightly messy like she'd run all the way up. Her eyes softened the moment they met hers.
"You lied," she said quietly. "You said you are okay." Okay.
They stayed on the rooftop long after the wind settled.
The city sounds below blurred into a distant hum, like the world was happening somewhere else. Her best friend leaned back on her hands, staring at the sky, while she hugged her knees close, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete.
"You know," her best friend said casually, "you don't have to forgive him."
She blinked. "I wasn't planning to."
"Good." A pause. "And you don't have to hate him either."
She frowned slightly, confused.
"Hating takes energy," her best friend continued. "And you've already spent too much on him."
That sank in slowly.
"I keep thinking about what I should've done differently," she admitted. "Maybe if I confessed another way… maybe if I was quieter… prettier… smarter…"
Her best friend turned sharply to look at her. "Stop."
The word wasn't loud, but it was firm.
"You don't shrink yourself to fit someone who enjoys watching you break," she said. "And anyone who humiliates you in front of others? That says everything about them. Not you."
Her throat tightened.
"But it still hurts," she whispered.
"Of course it does," her best friend said gently. "You lost something today. Not him—your hope."
She swallowed hard.
The clouds shifted overhead, letting a thin line of pale light slip through. It brushed her face, cold and fleeting.
"I don't know who I am without liking him," she confessed. "I've liked him for so long."
Her best friend was quiet for a moment, then smiled softly.
"Then we figure it out together," she said. "Who you are when you're not waiting for someone to choose you."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out two candies—the cheap kind from the convenience store. She held one out.
"For now," she added, "we survive the day."
She took it, fingers brushing hers.
They sat in silence, unwrapping the candies. The sweetness was small, almost unnoticeable—but it was real.
After a while, she spoke again.
"I think… I don't want to disappear."
Her best friend glanced at her. "You won't."
"I mean it," she said, lifting her head. "I don't want to become quiet just because he made me feel small."
A proud grin spread across her best friend's face. "There she is."
She let out a shaky laugh—brief, imperfect, but hers.
When the bell rang in the distance, neither of them moved right away.
"Ready?" her best friend asked eventually.
She nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "But… stay with me?"
Her best friend stood and offered her hand, eyes warm and steady. "Always."
She took it.
And as they left the rooftop together, the cold air followed—but it no longer felt like it was pressing her down.
It felt like a beginning.
The next day,
she didn't look at him.
Not once.
She sat beside her best friend instead of her usual seat by the window—the one that gave her a clear view of his profile. Her posture was straight, hands folded neatly on her desk. Too neat. Like she was holding herself together with effort.
When he walked into the classroom, the usual hush followed.
Normally, her heart would've reacted before her mind did.
It didn't.
She kept her eyes on her notebook, pen moving steadily as if nothing in the room mattered more than the words she was copying. Her best friend shot her a quick glance, then nodded approvingly.
Across the room, he paused.
Just for a second.
He hadn't meant to notice. He never meant to notice her at all. But something was off—an absence that felt louder than attention ever had.
She wasn't looking.
Not nervously.
Not hopefully.
Not at all.
He didn't want to care and took his seat.
Class went on. The teacher spoke. Chalk scraped against the board. Students whispered. Normally, he'd feel her presence like background noise—soft, persistent, easy to ignore.
Now there was nothing.
When the teacher called her name, she stood, answered clearly, and sat back down without glancing his way. No flushed cheeks. No shaky voice.
His pen stopped moving.
At lunch, she didn't wait near the vending machines.
She left with her best friend, laughing quietly at something on her phone. The sound wasn't loud, but it carried—light, unguarded, not meant for him.
He watched from a distance, jaw tightening before he even realized why.
Good, he told himself.
That's what she wanted, right?
So why did it feel wrong?
In the afternoon, someone joked about yesterday's confession. A careless laugh. A stupid comment.
He expected her to react.
She didn't.
She simply closed her book, stood up when the bell rang, and walked past his desk without slowing down. Her shoulder brushed the air beside him—close, but untouchable.
For the first time, she felt far away.
He turned in his seat, watching her disappear into the hallway, something unfamiliar settling in his chest.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Just a quiet, unsettling thought:
When did she stop looking at me like that?
Outside, walking beside her best friend, she exhaled slowly.
"It still hurts," she admitted.
Her best friend squeezed her hand. "Yeah. But you're doing it anyway."
She nodded.
Behind her, the school buzzed on like nothing had changed.
But somewhere in a classroom, a boy who thought he'd already won realized something had slipped through his fingers—and he didn't know when it happened.
To be continued