BOYFRIEND BEFORE 18: Beyond wishes, True love exist

I did not plan to fall in love before I turned 18, I planned to survive senior year. Lincoln High measured people by two things, college acceptance letters and couple posts, and if you lacked one, you needed the other. The hallways filled with paired hoodies and prom proposals, while my whiteboard filled with one line that stared back at me every morning. BOYFRIEND BEFORE 18, written in thick black marker by my own hand. I told Liv it was a joke, but the marker still sat on my desk.

“Maya, bus in five,” Mom called from the laundry room.

“I am going,” I said, shoving a granola bar into my backpack.

“Take a jacket,” she said, not looking up.

“It is September,” I said, already at the door.

Mom works nights at the hospital, sleeps during the day, and runs the house in the hours between. She is tired in a way that does not go away with coffee, and she does not have time for drama. She wants me in college, she wants Aaron out of trouble, and she wants the kitchen clean. She does not want to talk about whiteboards, so I do not bring it up. She would call it a distraction, and maybe it is.

“You look tired,” Aaron said, walking into the kitchen.

“I am tired,” I said, “some of us had homework.”

“Some of us had practice,” he said, drinking juice from the carton.

“Some of us care about grades,” I said, grabbing my bag.

Aaron is my older brother, captain of the baseball team, and he thinks the kitchen belongs to him. He is loud, protective, and acts like he runs the house, though Mom actually does. He means well, even when he gets on my nerves, and he watches me more than he watches his own grades. He thinks I need saving, and he is not subtle about it. He never asks about the whiteboard, but I see him glance at my bedroom door.

“Bus,” I said, heading out.

“Want a ride,” Aaron asked.

“From you,” I said, “no thanks.”

“Your loss,” he said, grinning.

I walked to the bus stop alone, the way I had since sophomore year. Liv usually picked me up, but her mom’s minivan was in the shop, and I did not want to ask Aaron for a ride. He would ask questions, and I did not have answers yet. The whiteboard felt like a secret I had not meant to tell, and I was not ready to explain it to anyone. Not even myself.

“Morning,” Liv texted, “bus sucks. Pick you up tomorrow.”

“Tell me about it,” I texted back.

“You okay,” she texted.

“I will be,” I texted, slipping my phone away.

Liv is my best friend, and she has been since fourth grade when I shared my pudding cup. She is honest, loud, and does not let me get away with anything. She plays soccer, owns too many hoodies, and tells me when my ideas are bad. She knows about the whiteboard because she gave it to me, half as a joke, half as a dare. She said, “You think too much, Chen. Just do something.” So I wrote it down.

“Hey,” Liv said, catching up to me at the school steps.

“Hey,” I said, fixing my backpack.

“You look like you slept two hours,” she said.

“Felt like two hours,” I said, walking faster.

The first bell rang, and we walked inside where the hallways smelled like old books and new perfume. Couples leaned against lockers, sharing headphones and coffee, and I kept my eyes on the floor. Posters for Winter Formal already hung on the walls, they said Save The Date in glitter letters, and I had no date to save. My locker was next to Sofia Martinez, who had a photo of her and her boyfriend taped inside.

“Are you going to the game Friday,” Sofia asked.

“Yeah,” I said, spinning my lock, “probably.”

“Cool,” she said, fixing her hair, “bring a date, it is more fun.”

“Right,” I said, “fun.”

I grabbed my English book, and my phone buzzed. It was a reminder I set for myself last week. BOYFRIEND BEFORE 18, with a little calendar emoji. I stared at it, then turned my phone off. I did not need the reminder, the whiteboard was enough, the hallway was enough, and the date on my driver’s license was enough. I turn 18 in six months. Six months to figure it out.

“Earth to Maya,” Liv said, waving a hand in front of my face.

“What,” I said, blinking at her.

“You are zoning out,” she said, “again.”

“Just thinking,” I said, closing my locker.

“About,” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

The second bell rang, and English started with Mr. Park talking about thesis statements. I tried to take notes, but my handwriting was messy and my thoughts were worse. I thought about the whiteboard, I thought about the deadline, and I thought about the list taped to the corner. Good personality, cute smile, taller than me, makes me laugh, likes me back. It seemed smart when I wrote it. It seemed safe, like a rubric I could follow.

Lunch came, and I sat with Liv and two other girls from Chemistry. They talked about their boyfriends, they talked about Homecoming dresses, and they talked about who asked who. I ate my sandwich and said nothing, because I had nothing to add. No story, no photo, no plan that had actually started. Just a whiteboard, and a marker, and a deadline I gave myself.

“You are quiet,” Liv said, pushing a fry toward me.

“I am listening,” I said, taking it.

“To what,” she said, “your own thoughts.”

“Maybe,” I said, smiling a little.

After school, I walked home instead of waiting for the bus. The air was warm, the sidewalks were empty, and I needed the quiet. I thought about downloading a dating app, I thought about asking Liv to set me up, and I thought about giving up. Then I thought about walking into Homecoming alone, while everyone else had someone. I kept walking, past the park, past the gas station.

“Maya,” Mom said when I got home, “groceries are on the counter.”

“Got it,” I said, dropping my bag.

“Dinner at seven,” she said, “do not be late.”

“I will not,” I said, heading to my room.

I closed my door, and the whiteboard was there. BOYFRIEND BEFORE 18, still in black, still waiting. I picked up the marker, uncapped it, and stared at the checklist. It was not about love, not really. It was about not being left behind, not being the only one without a photo, not being the punchline. It was about having an answer when people asked, and people always asked.

I put the marker down, and did not write anything. Not yet. The plan was not ready, the boy did not exist, and I was not sure I wanted him to. But the deadline did. Six months, and the whiteboard knew it. I knew it too, every time I walked the halls, every time I opened my locker, every time I sat at lunch. I was running out of time.

That night, I opened my laptop. I told myself it was for homework, but my hand moved on its own. I typed in the name of a dating app, the one everyone talked about but no one admitted to using. I made a profile in ten minutes, used a photo from last summer, and wrote a bio that felt safe. Single senior looking for same. I stared at the screen, then closed it. Not yet.

The next day after school, I went to the library. The quiet helped me think, and I needed to think. I found a table by the window, set down my backpack, and pulled out my Statistics homework.

I was halfway through problem three when someone stopped at my table. I looked up, and he was standing there with a coffee in each hand, and a smile I had seen in the yearbook.

“Is this seat taken,” he asked.

“Uh, no,” I said, moving my bag.

“I am Daniel,” he said, setting a latte in front of me.

“I am Maya,” I said, reaching for the cup.

He did not hand me the latte, he held out his hand instead. I took it, thinking he wanted a handshake, thinking it was polite. His grip was firm, his palm was warm, and he did not let go. He looked at me, not at my eyes, but through them, like he was checking a box. I tried to pull back, but he held on, his thumb brushing my knuckles once.