What the hell is wrong with me?
Why did I say that I needed to check if the media room had updated its battery station? I could have just said, "Oh, I actually forgot my book at home and just need to temporarily borrow a replacement from the library."
That would have been totally believable.
And they wouldn't have given me those sceptical looks.
But instead, I froze up like an absolute muppet.
While loitering in the library, I try to erase the embarrassing memory from my brain in its entirety.
My plan was to aimlessly roam the hallways and skim the noticeboard for desperate clubs still recruiting. Luckily, I managed to snag a spot taking pictures for the yearbook.
Afterwards, my brilliant idea was to casually spy on couples who openly display their affection whilst thinking their relationships are actually kept under wraps. But halfway through picturing myself behind a bush taking pictures, I realised how creepy that would look to anyone on the outside.
Very creepy.
So here I am.
On the floor.
Next to a dusty shelf that smells like ancient paperbacks.
At my side are three books. Each one has been checked out, proudly mine for the week. On top? Pride and Prejudice. I have heard the book is leagues ahead of the movie so I figured I should read it before committing to onscreen swooning.
Against this neglected corner of the library, I try very hard not to think about the unspeakable things hormonal teenagers have done in this exact spot. There is definitely a reason the janitor avoids this aisle. Most people have a basic grasp of the concept of privacy and off school premises activities. But there are always those few wildcards, the ones who think a dimly lit corner equals romance central.
I fear for the carpet.
Still, being here beats watching Edward feed Taylor grapes.
My headphones sit snug over my ears, sealing me into a sound bubble of mellow bass drop thumps with the quiet bobbing of my head.
I take another bite of the cottage pie resting in the crumpled wrinklewall on my lap, the savory sauce clinging to my fingers. Weirdly enough, my appetite had ghosted me earlier, but the second my bum hit the worn library carpet, hunger strutted back in.
With my sketchbook balanced against one knee, I grip my orange fountain pen. Inked on the page is a jacket, draped dramatically over invisible shoulders. Every stitch, button and fold is slowly coming to life beneath my colour.
It hits me halfway through shading the collar that the thread pattern looks familiar.
I pause, heart creeping up my throat.
That jawline. Those cheekbones. Perfect shaggy hair.
The jacket slouches just enough to suggest someone effortlessly confident.
Edward.
I instantly yank the page out so fast it tears in two. The one half crumples between my fingers, and I shove it to the bottom of my backpack like it will dissolve in there.
Of course, I ended up drawing Edward.
I wish I could say I have no idea how it happened. That some divine emotional glitch tripped me into falling for Edward. The guy who is basically in love with my best friend. But I do know. It happened slowly, like a sip of something sweet that leaves a bitter aftertaste. Long before Taylor ever asked him to the school dance last year, he was already lodged somewhere inconvenient in my chest.
I never wanted this. Not really.
I never meant for this to become a thing. But the more time I spend around him—the quiet glances, the casual chats, the way he actually listens when I talk—the deeper I sink. It's like gravity tailored itself to Edward and forgot to include a warning label for anyone in his vicinity.
And it's not like my past crushes set any high standards. Lachowski had the charm of a traffic cone and a personality locked up tighter than Rapunzel. Michael was an ego in skinny jeans who probably contracted different types of herpes at this point. James? Brilliant if you are into boys who speak in conspiracy theories and smell faintly of weed.
Edward, though... is different.
There is a calmness to him, a maturity that does not feel performative.
Honest to a fault about the mess in his life too. He never pretends to be above it. Respectful. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who has never made me feel small or like I had to fight for acknowledgement. Does not smoke either—probably because of his asthma, but still—it adds to the gentle picture he paints just by being himself.
He is simply kind.
And unattainable.
Because at the end of the day, he is hers.
And I'm just the best friend with the secret crush that is more like a curse.
My camera shakes slightly as I set it against the stack of books before I press record.
"Okay, I have to whisper because I'm in the library but update time," I say inaudibly, eyes darting toward the shelves. "Today has been a trainwreck of a day."
I pause dramatically.
"It all started in the canteen, talking to Taylor about her basic hoodie rotation, and then... in walks Edward. Naturally, I panicked. Survival instincts kicked in and everything. All I knew was, I needed to get the fuck out of there. So after making up a quick excuse about needing to get a book from the library, I tried to bolt."
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.
"But surprisingly, Edward saw right through my excuse. He deadass looked me in the eye and went, 'I know you got the Othello book a few weeks ago cause I teased you about it.' Like excuse me, sir. Please can you not be emotionally intelligent right now? Some of us are trying to repress our immoral feelings."
I take a bite out of my pie in frustration.
"So I had to come up with another excuse. And the excuse I gave was—wait for it—I need to check if the media room has updated its battery station. I don't even know what that means. That is not a thing. It has never been a thing. I just invented an entirely new department right on the spot."
I take a deep breath.
"We don't even need to talk about the drawing I just crumpled up."
I lift my juicebox in solemn salute.
"Oh Edward, why did you have to flee so swiftly from the cradle of my affections that fateful eve you chose Taylor? Must you parade your fondness before me so cruelly? Have you not guessed the depth of my regard?"
My face scrunches in mortification when I hear my melodramatic words playing back up. For a split second there, I sounded like a character plucked straight from a Victorian tragedy. All that nonsense? Someone could have slapped a powdered wig on me and called me Lady Woe of Desperation.
"But honestly, what have I done to deserve this? Am I just a bad person? I would argue there are worse people out there than me. I mean, I cross the road extra fast just so drivers don't get annoyed even when an elderly woman clearly needs help crossing. No need to inconvenience those drivers, right?"
The light blinks back at me judgementally.
"Okay I know, terrible joke," I admit quickly. "But heartbreak does things to you."
A tiny red warning flashes on my camera screen.
Memory Card Full.
I freeze.
"Oh, great," I mutter quietly. "Of course."
I quickly tap the button to save the recording and yank out the memory card.
Just as I am about to slip the card into my bag, a hand suddenly lands on my shoulder.
I flinch like I have been tasered.
Instinct kicks in.
The memory card vanishes between pages of my sketchbook, and I snap it shut so fast it might have bruised the air. My heart is sprinting in my chest from a surge of panic. Did they hear me? Were they standing there as I poured my soul into a digital confessional about my best friend's boyfriend?
Then I catch sight of the librarian.
Relief floods in like someone opened a pressure valve in my chest.
He is wearing his usual expression, a blend of stoicism and faint disappointment. But when he starts speaking, I just blink, momentarily confused. His mouth is moving, but I still have lo-fi beats dancing in my ears.
He gestures to my headphones with the tired expression of someone who has done this far too many times.
I tug them down, music still whispering in the background.
"Sorry, what?" I murmur.
His voice comes with a kind of finality. "The bell has rung. You should be heading to class."
"Oh—shit."
The word escapes before I can leash it. I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes snapping wide with horror. Then I look up at his face slowly. I just cussed in front of a man who probably reads Dickens for fun. Halmeoni would be so disappointed in me. I can just hear her sigh echoing in my brain, complete with finger wagging.
"Sorry, that was... accidental. Please don't ban me from the library."
He scolds me without speaking—just a long piercing look—then turns with the grace of someone too tired to fight with a teenager today. Back to his desk.
And panic really sets in.
English class after break.
I hug my books to my chest, sketchbook included.
My feet launch into action, thundering down the corridor.
The hallways are packed with students loitering around every corner. I dodge a cluster of year tens, swerve around a couple arguing over infidelity and barrel past someone in the middle of taking a selfie. There are muttered curses, offended gasps, and one guy who gestures at me angrily when I nudge his shoulder out of the way.
No apologies are offered—I am on an urgent quest, and Mrs. Presario accepts nothing less than punctuality.
As the hallway stretches ahead, I know one thing. If I am not in class before that bell rings, Presario will not only mark me late, but she will make me compose an entire essay about my failings and force me to read it in front of the class as if delivering it to a courtroom. She once called tardiness "a crack in the foundation of responsibility".
So yeah, the stakes are pretty high.
I round the corner and spot it. The classroom door is still ajar, a few stragglers casually wandering in.
Relief floods me.
Maybe I won't die today.
Just as I am speeding up, fate rears its petty little head and throws a person in my path. We collide, books exploding from both our arms like confetti. Pages flutter and lives flash before eyes. Maybe just my life.
I stifle a groan and drop to collect the mess—only to butt heads with the stranger at the exact moment.
I hiss through my teeth.
He groans as if I've ruined his entire week.
"Just stand there," he mutters, clearly irritated. "I'll get them."
I press a hand to my forehead, the throbbing making me wince, while trying to figure out why his voice dipped in emotional detachment sounds oddly familiar. I tilt my head, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, but he crouches over to collect our books before I can. All I see is the mop of nocturnal black hair, wildly scruffy like it has been in an argument with several combs.
Before I can piece together his identity, a movement behind him catches my eye—Damien. Edward's best mate. He gestures at his wrist urgently as if to silently say, Time is ticking, mate.
The stranger stands and thrusts the books toward me without ceremony. I scoop them up like treasure and immediately bolt, mumbling something that is not really a thank you. Honestly, I don't have the emotional bandwidth for manners right now.
"You're welcome," he calls after me, tone drenched in sarcasm.
I don't turn around.
And just as the late bell slices through the air like a siren, I slide into class with a grin blooming across my face.
Presario eyes me from her desk as if recalculating how much she dislikes me.
Damien glances up at me with a smile when I hurry towards our shared desk, books still clumsily hugged like precious cargo against my chest. His head shakes with quiet amusement, brown eyes sparkling as I slide into the seat beside him.
"I made it, baby," I whisper triumphantly, sounding more breathless than victorious.
He lets out a low chuckle, already unzipping his pencil case. "Fashionably on time."
"I was afraid she was going to make me write a long essay about the importance of punctuality." I drop my bag at my feet, books spilling onto the desk in a chaotic avalanche.
"Speaking of fear," he says out of nowhere, drawing my attention off my table back to him, "I went to the shopping centre yesterday, right? Found this book on phobias. Thought about buying it but I was too afraid it wouldn't help me."
I blink. "That was impressively terrible timing for a pun, Damien. Like award-winning levels of misplaced segue."
He grins, unbothered. "There is no such thing as terrible timing when it comes to making puns."
"Uh-huh. Well, I actually did buy that book you chickened out on and let me tell you, the chapter on fear of subtraction? Total mess. It literally did not add up."
He lets out an involuntary snort, trying to hide a smile behind his sleeve. "Marry me?"
"Fuck no!"
He raises an eyebrow while still chuckling. Then he leans over curiously, his fingers brushing over the covers as he reads, lips twitching into a grin.
"Pride and Prejudice?" he says, holding it up. "Feeling Jane Austen-y today, are we?"
"I have decided that indulging in fictional love triangles is what I need to suppress my feelings in real life."
He snorts. "And you got Wuthering Heights too? Mate, you are such a sucker for romance."
I roll my eyes, reaching to snatch the book back, but he is already flipping it to the back cover.
"And Frankenstein?" he adds, tapping the spine. "That one is a nice break from the other two. Or does it also tell a tale about a turbulent relationship between two people?"
"Would you stop emotionally profiling me through my reading list?" I hiss pleadingly, hiding my amused grin.
He sets the stack down reverently, hands folded like he has just performed an ancient ritual. "Listen, I'm not judging you but if you end up like one of those gals who write tragic letters by the candlelight, I swear... You're already dramatic as it is with your camera."
"How dare you?" I gasp wearing an exaggerated offended look. "I am not dramatic. You take that back."
Damien leans back in his seat, spinning a pen between his fingers. "By the way, did you go to the uni open days?"
"Do you know who my mum is?"
"So yes?"
I nod.
"You reckon it was worth it, or was it just a walking tour to increase our anxieties about leaving secondary school?"
I groan, dragging my book closer so I can pretend to read while avoiding eye contact. "Don't even remind me. Half the time, I was trying not to say something dumb in front of the career advisors."
He laughs. "Mate, my advisor told me swimming was dying and then tried to sell me on agricultural economics. I don't even garden."
I snort. "At least your parents are supportive of what you want to do. My mum keeps pushing me to either study medicine or law. Says I argue enough to make money off it."
"You do argue a lot though," he says, poking my arm with the eraser end of his pencil.
"Does that mean I want to be a lawyer?"
"You could probably win every case just from talking the judge's ear off," he says solemnly. "Or get banned from court entirely."
I tilt my head in agreement.
Damien lowers his voice to a whisper. "Also, side note. You heard Luca tried asking Jodie out at the vending machine yesterday?"
My neck nearly snaps from how fast I turn toward him. "Wait, Jodie?" I whisper, my voice pitched low but urgent.
Damien nods, clearly enjoying the gossip. "Yep. Bold move. Did not even look nervous, mate. Like he was fully confident she was going to accept his confession."
I blink, heart skipping a beat.
Jodie. The girl who once shared muddy pudding cups with me during Reception. The one I used to sit beside during rainy day reading time. The girl whose birthday parties always had the best snacks and balloon animals. We have not properly spoken in ages, but she sometimes still lingers in the corners of memory.
"So... what did she say?" I ask, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
Damien shrugs. "No one knows. She did her usual nod and smile thing and walked off with her Fanta. People say she might already be planning her wedding with him, but I think she just sacked him off."
"Jodie doesn't do the whole boyfriend thing."
"Yeah."
Something inside me always clenches when I talk about my former childhood best friend. It's that weird ache you get when realising that someone from your past is still able to exist outside your life.
"You alright?" Damien asks, nudging me out of my train of thought. "You're making a face."
"Yeah," I mutter, hiding behind a page I'm not actually reading. "Totally fine. Absolutely not spiralling over childhood nostalgia."
Damien grins. "I sometimes forget you were friends with Jodie and them man."
"Yeah, me too."
The room jolts to attention when Presario strides to the front, her heels clacking like an approaching storm. "Okay, settle down," she announces, her voice clipped and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.
We obey instantly.
Not out of respect, but deep primal fear.
She pauses, squinting theatrically. "Did I greet you yet? I don't remember."
Before anyone can muster a reply, the door bursts open like a poorly timed jumpscare.
Riley stumbles inside, hands braced on his knees as he gasps for air as if he has just fled from a zombie apocalypse. His gym kit still clings to him, sweat dripping off his neck. A beat later his closest friend, James enters with zero urgency, scrolling down his phone and practically whistling to himself. Effortlessly aloof as per usual.
Damien and I exchange the same exhausted look we have been exchanging all term—"these two will never learn". Honestly, you would think being late to this class was a sport for them and they were both trying to outcompete the other for nationals.
"Late," our educator states, not even raising her voice. There is a flicker of disappointment behind her eyes. "You know, I cannot in good conscience say I'm surprised. This has become a daily occurrence, boys."
"Come on, Mrs. P!" Riley straightens, slapping on a grin as bright as it is insincere. "We were only a few seconds off. Can't you let it slide, just this once?"
Her lips tighten. "First of all, Mr. McKenzie, I am not your mate. Either you address me as madam or Mrs. Presario. Choose wisely."
Riley grimaces like he has just been slapped and he mutters, "Sorry, Mrs. Presario."
"Secondly," she continues, eyes narrowing to slits, "I let you off twelve times. I counted. Those were twelve missed opportunities to grow a sense of responsibility."
Riley fumbles. "But we did grow a sense of responsibility, really." He elbows James urgently. "Right, Mr. Lamar?"
James does not even look up. "Definitely."
Presario just smiles coolly. Without missing a beat, she plucks James's phone straight from his hand. He blinks once, but otherwise there is no change in his chill vibe. Is that what cannabis does to you?
"Detention after school," she says, dropping the sentence like a guillotine. "And if you are late to that, you might just meet my full wrath."
"What? No!" Riley's jaw practically detaches. "I've got football practice!"
"Then consider this practice," she replies, smiling with full villainess flair. "Take your seats. You have wasted enough of my time. Life of Pi awaits and believe me, it is far less forgiving than I am."
There is a flicker of rebellion in Riley's eyes, but even he knows better than to mess with Presario when she has already sharpened her daggers. She never shouts. Her power lies in unnerving calm and looks of disappointment. Cross her once, and she will paint your academic future in grey.
I learned that from Yang Jin.
Year eleven, he made the fatal mistake of publicly challenging her over essay criteria confidently and repeatedly. He joked that she was too traditional, too strict. Then his grades mysteriously started dropping. One by one. A steady descent that had "vengeful teacher" written all over it. There was no proof of this, of course, but I just have my suspicions. Even he eventually stopped laughing.
That is the reason why I don't pipe up in her class. I exist quietly and dutifully. Unlike Yang Jin, I care about my future, and more importantly... Amma would end me if I tanked my English marks because I could not keep my mouth shut.
"So before I was so rudely interrupted," Presario says, eyes slicing toward the two boys as they settle at the back of the room. "I was going to greet my favourite class."
I lean over, whispering to Damien without moving my lips too much. "She says that to all her classes."
He smirks, scribbling summoning lightning bolts on the corner of his notebook.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, madam," we echo in perfect harmony.
"Good afternoon, madam," someone mutters cheekily from the back.
Presario lifts an amused brow and she corrects herself with a smile, "Ah—yes. Good afternoon."
Who had the balls to correct her?
"Now, we are quite behind on literature, so open your Life of Pi books. Let's try to make up for yesterday."
I slide the novels I checked out into my bag save for Pride and Prejudice. I leave her on my desk for later. I plan to read it on the bus, or maybe during those awkward gaps between classes where conversation feels like work. But when I peer down to check for my sketchbook... I realise it's missing.
Not just buried underneath the other novels.
Fully gone.
Panic surges in my chest.
My eyes scan the desk. Nothing.
I rifle through my bag. Still nothing.
No.
I had it. I remember gripping it. It was there. It has to be here.
Where the fuck is it?
And then it happens. The cracking moment.
"Shit."
My voice isn't loud, but in the vacuum of silence it echoes like a gunshot.
Presario snaps her eyes toward me with the precision of a hawk.
And then the worst part: everyone looks. Heads turn towards me like they have all rehearsed the motion. The dutiful student cursed. Out loud. In English class. In front of Presario.
"Sorry," I stammer, face reddening. "That was... not supposed to happen in front of you."
Her lips curl into something like pleasure mixed with vengeance. "I guess you also want to join us in detention, Seong Jin Lee. I shall be seeing you after school."
My eyes pinch shut painfully.
My very first detention.