"You can push me away all you want, Wendy… but don't ever lie that you don't feel something too."
— Wayne
I didn't sleep that night.
It wasn't because of exams, chores, or even Calvin's sudden reappearance — the kind that never felt accidental, only unfinished.
It was because of Wayne.
His voice kept replaying in my head like a bell someone struck too hard and forgot to silence.
I like you. I've always liked you.
Who says things like that without warning?
Who looks at you like you're fragile and dangerous at the same time — like touching you could either heal them or destroy them?
I told myself it was drama.
Teenage hormones.
Curiosity mistaken for emotion.
So why couldn't I breathe properly?
Why did my chest tighten every time his face appeared in my thoughts — calm eyes, steady confidence, the way he stood like nothing scared him?
Why did saying goodnight suddenly feel like losing something I hadn't even owned yet?
Morning arrived too quickly, rude and unapologetic.
I walked into school like someone trying to disappear, hugging my books tightly to my chest as if they were a bulletproof vest. My steps were careful, my head lowered. I just wanted to survive the day quietly.
But the moment I stepped into the hallway, I froze.
Everyone was staring.
Not whispering.
Not pretending not to look.
Staring.
Like I had grown wings overnight.
Then I saw why.
Wayne was leaning against my locker like he belonged there — like the hallway itself had rearranged to accommodate him. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Expression calm. Sunlight catching on his skin in a way that felt unfair.
And in his hand—
Flowers.
Not the neat, wrapped kind from a store. These were wild flowers — imperfect, soft, a mix of pale purple and white petals that looked like they had been picked carefully, intentionally.
My heart dropped straight into my stomach.
Taylor gasped beside me so loudly heads turned.
"Wendy! So you've started enjoying life behind my back? This boy is in love. IN. LOVE."
"Taylor, please—"
"I will not be quiet," she declared. "Somebody's daughter is starring in a romantic movie and didn't invite me!"
I wanted the ground to open and swallow me whole.
But a tiny, reckless part of me didn't.
Wayne straightened when he saw me and walked closer, slow and deliberate, like every step was a choice. He held the flowers out like they mattered.
"For you."
My heartbeat crashed violently against my ribs.
I stared at the flowers.
Then at him.
Then at the dozens of eyes watching us like we were breaking news.
"Wayne," I whispered. "Why are you doing this?"
He smiled softly — not cocky, not playful. Honest.
"Because pretending I don't care is harder than breathing without lungs."
Who talks like that?
Who says things that turn bones to cotton and courage into confusion?
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the hallway like cold steel.
"Wendy."
Calvin.
Of course.
He walked toward us with that familiar arrogance, hands in his pockets, eyes dark with something unreadable. He took in the scene — the flowers, Wayne, me — and something dangerous tightened in his jaw.
"What's all this?" he asked.
Wayne stepped forward slightly, not aggressive, just protective.
"None of your business."
Calvin let out a humorless laugh. "Everything concerning Wendy is my business."
"No," I snapped before my brain could stop me. "It's not."
The hallway seemed to exhale all at once.
Calvin's nostrils flared. "So this is the replacement?"
"He's not a replacement," I shot back. "He's… my friend."
The word tasted strange on my tongue.
Wayne's eyes flickered — hurt, yes, but also patient, like he was willing to stand in the storm if it meant staying close.
"Friend," Calvin repeated with a mocking smile. "Yeah. For now."
Taylor slapped her forehead. "Jesus. This drama wants to finish us."
Calvin leaned closer, his voice dropping into something sharp and dangerous.
"I'm not done with you, Wendy."
Before fear could fully settle, Wayne stepped completely in front of me.
"She doesn't belong to you."
Calvin's lips curved into a slow, unsettling smirk.
"We'll see."
Then he walked away, leaving behind tension thick enough to choke on. The hallway buzzed like a disturbed hive.
My knees felt weak.
Wayne turned back to me and gently extended the flowers again — softer now, like he was giving me space to choose.
"No pressure," he said quietly. "Just… don't shut me out."
I looked at him — really looked.
At the sincerity.
At the patience.
At the way he saw me not as history or territory, but as someone worth standing up for.
And that scared me.
Because he wasn't just a crush anymore.
He was becoming a feeling.
And feelings ruin people.
They blur rules.
They rewrite promises.
They make strong girls forget why they built walls in the first place.
My fingers slowly closed around the flowers.
And in that moment, I knew:
I was already slipping