6 The secret moment

By Friday, I was exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. Every hallway, every glance, every text had worn me down. I told myself I hated him. I repeated it over and over in my head like a mantra. I hated him. I hated him. I hated him.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. Not entirely.

I found myself scanning the hallways anyway, my stomach twisting when I caught sight of him across the room. Leaning casually against a locker, eyes sharp, scanning, waiting. My chest tightened, and I told myself it was hate. Pure, unadulterated hate. But I knew better.

⸻

It started during our last period, biology. We were paired up for an experiment, something simple enough to keep us occupied, but in reality, a perfect excuse to be forced into proximity. I froze when I saw him walk toward me, a smug smirk plastered across his face.

“Looks like I get you as a partner,” he said, voice low, teasing.

“I didn’t get a choice,” I muttered, glaring at him as I tried to avoid eye contact.

He chuckled softly, leaning closer than necessary. “Neither did I.”

His proximity made my heart hammer. I hated that I could feel the heat of his presence, could hear the subtle rhythm of his breathing. I told myself it was hate. That’s all it was. Hate.

⸻

We worked in silence for a few minutes, each of us trying to focus on the task, but the tension between us was suffocating. Every brush of his hand against mine as we measured liquids made my stomach twist. Every time I caught him watching me, my chest tightened like it was trying to escape.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re… harder to ignore than I thought.”

I froze, unsure whether to glare or laugh. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked, leaning just slightly closer. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

I wanted to shove him, to tell him off, to run. But my body refused to move. My heart raced. My thoughts scrambled. I hated that I was thinking about him this way. I hated that a small, terrified part of me was curious.

⸻

By the end of the experiment, we were alone in the lab. The rest of the class had left, and the teacher had stepped out to grab something from the office. I could feel my pulse in my throat as I stacked beakers and notebooks, trying to act natural. Trying to ignore him.

“You can’t stop noticing me,” he said suddenly, voice quiet but insistent.

I froze. “I… what?”

“Don’t lie,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you try to act like you don’t care, but your eyes… they give you away.”

My face burned. I wanted to tell him to leave. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. Instead, I whispered, almost involuntarily, “I don’t… I don’t care.”

He smirked, the smirk that always made my stomach twist, and leaned in just slightly. “You do.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My chest tightened. I hated that he was right. I hated that he could see through me. I hated that my stubbornness was useless against him.

⸻

And then something happened that I wasn’t prepared for.

A small jar of chemicals tipped over, spilling across the counter. Without thinking, I reached to grab it—and he did too. Our hands brushed. The contact was electric. I jerked my hand back, flustered, and he didn’t let go.

“I told you…” he whispered, close enough that I could feel his breath against my ear. “You can’t ignore me.”

I swallowed hard. I hated that my pulse was racing. I hated that my body reacted before my brain could catch up. My lips pressed into a tight line as I tried to regain control, tried to remind myself I hated him, tried to tell myself this was wrong.

But he just smirked, watching me with a mixture of amusement and something darker. “It’s okay,” he said softly, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t have to fight it.”

I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone. And yet… I wanted to see what he would do next.

⸻

By the time class ended, we were still standing close, the tension between us almost tangible. I could feel his eyes on me as I packed up my things. Every brush of his sleeve against mine made my stomach twist. Every time he leaned in slightly, I wanted to push him away—and at the same time, I wanted to lean closer.

When we stepped out into the hallway, it was empty. Quiet. Safe—or as safe as it could be with him near.

He stopped suddenly, turning to face me. “You’re going to stop pretending soon,” he said softly, almost gently, though the intensity in his gaze made my stomach flip. “I know you. I know what you’re thinking.”

I stepped back, trying to put distance between us. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smirked again. “You do. And that’s why you’ll never stay away.”

My chest ached. My pulse was racing. My thoughts were spinning. I hated him, I hated myself, and I hated that a small, stupid part of me already wanted to see him again.

And then he did something I didn’t expect. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. My skin tingled at the contact. My heart threatened to betray me. My mind screamed at me to push him away.

But I didn’t.

He stepped back, giving me just enough space to breathe, and said quietly, “We’ll see how long you can pretend.”

Then he was gone, disappearing down the hall like he had never been there, leaving me alone, trembling, and more aware than ever that my carefully constructed walls were beginning to crack.

And in the quiet, one thought lingered, dangerous and undeniable:

This isn’t hate anymore. Not entirely. And once the walls fall… nothing will ever be the same.