2 The first pull

The next day started like any other—except it wasn’t.

Our mutual friend caught me by my locker, leaning against it with that smirk she always wore when she thought she knew everyone’s secrets.

“Do you like him?” she asked, eyes bright and teasing, like she already had the answer.

I rolled my eyes, annoyed that she even asked. “No. Of course not.”

She nudged me, leaning closer, her grin wider. “Girl… he’s obsessed with you. Just admit it and go get your man.”

I shook my head, glaring. “No. I hate him.”

She laughed, tossing her hair and walking away like she’d won some invisible battle. I thought I was safe. I thought it was over.

I was wrong.

By the afternoon, my phone buzzed. A number I didn’t recognize flashed on the screen. I froze, gripping it tightly. My stomach twisted with irritation—and curiosity. I tapped the screen, opening the message.

“Don’t trust what she said. She’s lying.”

I frowned. Why are you texting me? I typed back: “Then why did you text me at all?”

There was no reply. Instead, I blocked the number, thinking that would end it.

It didn’t.

⸻

The next morning, I learned quickly that it wasn’t over.

He was waiting for me, leaning against the lockers with that unreadable expression I had learned to dread. Before I could even move, his hand shot out, grabbing me by the neck with a grip that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.

“Why did you block me?” he demanded, voice low and sharp. “I wanted to talk to you.”

I struggled, trying to pull free. “Let… me… go!”

He didn’t. He only tightened his grip. “Where is your phone?”

Panic surged through me, but I had no choice. I handed it over, unblocking his number. Only then did he finally let me go, stepping back just enough to release me.

“Better not happen again,” he muttered, eyes dark, unreadable, before walking away.

I stood there, heart hammering, staring after him. Who… who is he? I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible.

⸻

But he didn’t stop.

Text after text. Small gifts I didn’t want. Lunch he didn’t even ask me to accept. Food I stubbornly refused, throwing it on the ground in defiance. I wanted to show him I didn’t need him, that I could ignore him, that his obsession meant nothing.

And yet, later, sitting alone in my room, I realized I had wasted the food I was actually starving for. My stomach growled, and I quietly cried out of frustration and embarrassment. I couldn’t let him know. I picked it up, finishing every last bite, pretending it didn’t matter.

Even as I hated him, I couldn’t stop noticing him. The way he moved through the halls, like he owned the space without trying. The way he smirked when no one was looking. The way he made everyone around him seem smaller, less important. He was impossible to ignore.

And deep down, I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

That day, every glance, every text, every little interaction left me more restless than the last. I hated that I kept thinking about him. I hated that a part of me wanted to reply to his messages, wanted to accept the food, wanted to see what he would do next.

Because even in the middle of my stubbornness, even while telling myself I hated him, there was a pull. A dangerous, electric pull that made my chest tighten and my thoughts spin.

And the worst part? I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself.

I wasn’t ready to see what this obsession, this tension, this toxic dance between us could turn into.

And I had a feeling… when it finally escalated, nothing would ever be the same again.