4 When walls break

By Thursday, I was exhausted. Every hallway, every glance, every message from him was like walking a tightrope over fire. I told myself I hated him, but I couldn’t deny the way my chest ached whenever he was near.

And today… today he cornered me.

I had been walking to my locker after gym class, headphones in, pretending not to notice anyone. I thought I was safe. I thought I could avoid him. But as soon as I reached the corner by the stairwell, he stepped out from behind the lockers.

“Going somewhere?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but the way he said it made my skin prickle.

I tried to move around him, but he mirrored every step. A wall. Silent, tense, immovable. My heart pounded, my breath came fast. “Move,” I spat.

He didn’t. He smirked, his eyes dark, sharp, unrelenting. “We need to talk.”

“No. We don’t,” I said, shaking my head.

“Yes. We do.”

I tried to push past him, but his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. Hard. I jerked back, yanking my arm free. “Let go!”

Instead, he let go only enough to guide me toward a quieter corner of the hallway. A side corridor few people used. My pulse raced. My stomach twisted. I hated that I was nervous. I hated that I was aware of every inch of space between us, every sound, every shadow.

Once we were alone, he stopped. Just stared. And suddenly, the air felt heavy. Charged. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

“I don’t know why you keep avoiding me,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I don’t know why you hate me… or why you can’t stop noticing me.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because he was right. Every scowl, every shove, every harsh word… it didn’t erase the fact that I noticed him. That I felt something dangerous when he was near.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered, trying to step back.

“Neither do I,” he said, and then he smiled—a smile that wasn’t friendly, wasn’t kind. It was sharp, knowing, dangerous. “But I can’t stop.”

My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. And I hated myself for even thinking about what he just said.

He stepped closer. Too close. My instincts screamed at me to run, but I froze. I wanted to. I wanted to shove him, to scream, to get away—but some part of me didn’t. Some part of me wanted to see what he would do next.

“Why can’t you stay away?” I asked, my voice trembling, even as I tried to hide it.

“Because you’re impossible,” he said, and the tension in his gaze made my knees feel weak. “And because I like it when you fight me. It… makes it interesting.”

I could barely breathe. I hated that my heart was pounding. I hated that my thoughts were screaming at me to run while my body refused.

Before I could respond, footsteps echoed from the main hallway. He stepped back, smirk fading into something unreadable, and said, quietly, “We’ll continue this later.”

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the quiet corridor. My chest ached. My stomach churned. My mind spun. I hated him. I hated myself. I hated how much I wanted to hate him but couldn’t.

And in the back of my mind, a single thought lingered:

This isn’t over. Not even close.