He was never mine

It all started at school, with a fight over something small—something that shouldn’t have mattered. But somehow, it changed everything. From that day on, we weren’t just classmates. We became enemies. After that, every interaction felt like a battlefield. We avoided each other when we could, but school had a way of trapping us in the same hallways, the same classrooms, the same group projects. Every glance, every word, felt like a challenge. People noticed. The rumors started almost immediately. Whispers followed us between classes. A laugh, a comment, even the way we moved through a room—it all became ammunition in the war no one asked for. Every eye in the cafeteria seemed to linger just a little too long, as if everyone was waiting for the next round of our silent battles. We never apologized. Neither of us wanted to look weak. Some days, the hate was exhausting. Other days, it was almost comforting, like a weight we’d grown used to carrying. I would spend mornings steeling mys

The next morning, I thought I was ready. I told myself I wouldn’t think about him, I wouldn’t look at him, and I certainly wouldn’t let him see he had any power over me. I was wrong. As soon as I walked into school, there he was. Waiting. Leaning casually against the lockers near the entrance, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on me like I was the only person in the hallway. My stomach twisted. I told myself it was hate. Pure, unadulterated hate. But my chest betrayed me, tightening in a way I didn’t like. Before I could pass, he stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Good morning,” he said casually, but there was something sharp under the words—a warning disguised as calm. I glared. “Move.” He tilted his head, smirking. “I don’t think so.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “I don’t have time for your games.” “Games?” His voice dropped low. “I thought you liked me.” I froze, my blood running cold. “I don’t—” He stepped closer. Too close. His presence was suffocating

The next day, I tried my best to avoid him. I walked the long way to class, kept my head down, and even pretended to be engrossed in my notebook during lunch. I told myself that if I didn’t see him, I wouldn’t have to deal with him. That was my plan. It failed almost immediately. By the time I reached the cafeteria, he was there. Waiting. At my table. My stomach twisted, my chest tightened, and I told myself it was hate. Pure, unadulterated hate. But the truth—what I refused to admit—was something else entirely. “I brought you something,” he said, holding a bag of food. His smirk was infuriating, like he already knew it would get a reaction. “I don’t want it,” I said, glaring, ready to shove it away. “You’re going to eat it anyway,” he said, leaning closer than necessary, his gaze fixed on me. I slammed the bag to the floor in a show of defiance. My hands shook, my face burned, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I picke

It started with a simple question that I knew I shouldn’t answer. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against my locker after school, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. I rolled my eyes. “I don’t belong to anyone.” He laughed softly, a sound that should have annoyed me but somehow didn’t. “Not yet,” he said, tilting his head. “But you will be.” I wanted to argue. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to slam my locker and never look at him again. But the truth—no matter how much I hated it—was that I couldn’t. My chest tightened. My stomach churned. And I hated myself for feeling it. A week later, after constant teasing, silent stares, and small touches that made me both furious and flustered, he cornered me in the empty courtyard. “Enough games,” he said, eyes dark, serious. “I’m tired of waiting for you to admit it.” “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to hide how my heart was hammering. “Us,” he said simply. “You and me. Stop pretending.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Every thought twisted in my head, looping over and over. His smirk, his shrug, the way he had acted like it was nothing… like it was all normal. Like I should just accept it. But I couldn’t. I hated that I had trusted him. I hated that I had let him in, that I had believed his words, that I had let myself feel something real. I hated that I cared. The next day, I tried to act normal. Tried to convince myself that ignoring him would make the pain easier to bear. But it didn’t. He was everywhere. Texts, calls, sudden appearances in the hallway, corners of the classroom. “Where are you?” “Why aren’t you answering me?” “You’re avoiding me.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone. I wanted to run and never look back. But I didn’t. Because part of me… couldn’t. Part of me was still tangled in him, still addicted to the highs and lows, the chaos, the dangerous pull of him. And then I found out more. One of my friends—someone I trusted—ha