Chapter One
Brielle
I was eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on a classroom floor that hummed with the tired breath of overworked air-conditioning and smelled faintly of pencil shavings, dry-erase marker, and the lemony cleaner the janitor used every afternoon. The tiles pressed cold through my jeans. Somewhere behind me, a chair leg screeched like a protest. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that flat, too-honest glow that made it impossible to hide.
My palms had been damp enough that I kept wiping them on my knees, hoping no one noticed. My essay rested in my lap, folded into careful quarters, the paper softened at the creases from how many times I had smoothed it down. I thought that if I made the edges perfect, the words inside might behave.
“Next,” my English teacher said, peering over the rim of her glasses with the patient authority of someone who had heard every childhood dream imaginable. “Brielle Moore.”
A ripple moved through the room; whispers, a muffled giggle, the subtle shifting that meant people were paying attention for reasons that had nothing to do with academic curiosity. I had already spent the year being quietly categorized. Too loud. Too bright. Too much of something no one bothered to define.
I stood anyway.
Chin lifting. Shoulders settling back like instinct.
My sneakers squeaked faintly as I stepped forward, clutching the paper, feeling the weight of twenty-something pairs of eyes slide over me. The classroom windows rattled softly from a passing bus, sunlight catching dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Brielle?” she asked, pen hovering over her clipboard, already prepared to write down something tidy and sensible.
There had been a small pause — not from uncertainty, but from the simple act of taking a breath.
“I want to be in love,” I said.
For half a heartbeat, the room went still.
Hope rose in my chest, bright and fragile, like something just beginning to unfold.
Then laughter broke loose; sharp, echoing, bouncing off cinderblock walls. A boy near the back snorted loudly. Someone whispered, “That’s dumb,” not quite quietly enough. A chair creaked as someone leaned over to whisper to a friend.
My fingers tightened around the paper, crinkling the edge.
My teacher smiled in that careful, adult way. :ips curved, eyes soft but distant, as though she were handling something delicate she didn’t quite take seriously. “That’s… sweet,” she said, tilting her head. “But I meant what careet do you want when you're older..”
Careers. Right.
Doctor. Lawyer. Architect. Astronaut. Teacher. Anything in between. My teacher wanted me to pick something with a clear trajectory. Either a respectable title or a framed certificate on a wall somewhere.
I nodded like I understood, as if I could see the path she was gesturing toward.
I didn’t. Not really.
At that age, I hadn’t possessed the idea of having a more concrete goal for the future or any neatly packaged ambition to go with it. I hadn’t known what the world expected of me or what I was supposed to offer in return. What I had known — was the warmth I felt when my parents laughed together in the kitchen late at night, or when music played softly and their voices blended with it like something unbreakable.
I had been busy imagining a future steeped in small intimacies like shared glances across crowded rooms, inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else, hands reaching for mine without thinking, and someone choosing me not out of obligation but because it felt right.
Just like my parents had… before voices started sharpening, before doors closed a little harder, before love began to sound more like negotiation than music.
The laughter in the classroom faded into murmurs. I hadn’t shrunk. Even then, something stubborn lived in my chest. It was a certainty that what I said I wanted wasn’t foolish. It just was inconvenient to explain at the moment.
When I said I wanted to be in love, I hadn’t met the glossy, movie-ending version of it, though I wouldn’t have objected to a dramatic confession or two.
I carried a certainty with me through the years that followed, even as my parents’ arguments grew louder and more frequent, until the inevitable conversation happened two years later and the word divorce settled into our house like a draft that never quite went away.
If anything, it fueled me.
Freshman year of high school arrived with hallway lockers slamming and the electric thrill of reinvention.
My first boyfriend had been all nervous smiles and tentative hand-holding, the glow of late-night texts lighting up my bedroom ceiling.
Then came another. And another. And another.
I hadn’t been collecting boys like souvenirs. I had been collecting moments that felt like confirmation — proof that being chosen meant something, that the feeling I chased wasn’t imaginary.
The beginnings always sparkled.
That dizzying anticipation before seeing someone. The way a name lighting up your phone could have me smiling all day. The quiet thrill of realizing someone was paying attention, really paying attention, as if you might be an answer they hadn’t known to look for.
Then, unfortunately, after a few weeks or sometimes a few months, that shine would inevitably dull.
Conversations would shorten. Excuses multiplied. There would be a subtle shift from enthusiasm to convenience. The slow realization that wanting something deeply didn’t mean the other person knew how to hold it with care.
By senior year of high school, whispers followed me down the hallways.
Boy-crazy.
Heart-eyes
Love-obsessed.
I had never seen it as a flaw, though.
I wasn’t like I had been purposely reckless. No, I was just hopeful and brave enough to keep believing that someone would eventually meet me with the same certainty I offered.
That belief never fully left. It simply grew quieter, more complicated, and layered with heartbreaking experiences and the occasional bruised ego.
Now I’m twenty-two, in my last year of college, and not much has changed about that, apart from knowing exactly how much it can cost to keep believing.
Morning slips through the half-open blinds like it has somewhere important to be, laying soft gold stripes across my dorm room—across the pile of clothes I swear I’ll fold later, across my desk crowded with lip gloss, color-coded planners, and an old coffee mug that smells faintly like late night ambition and regret.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, hands on my hips, assessing.
My caramel curls piled into a messy bun that took twenty minutes to look accidental. My skin is warm and glowing, thanks to equal parts skincare routine and sheer stubbornness.
A pastel yellow top that says “I tried, but not too hard” with a pastel pink skirt that falls just above my knees. I put on my favorite rose-gold hoops that match with the color of my wedges. I lean in close making sure my makeup looks perfect. Neutral pink glossed lips, cat-eye style liner, and lashes long and curled to perfection.
I get that quiet satisfaction of knowing that I look just as amazing as I tell myself I am.
I take a deep breath, remembering my affirmations.
Funny? Against my will, sometimes. Confident? Mostly. Driven? Always.
There’s a steady hum under my ribs that says I can walk into any room and belong there, even if a quieter voice occasionally asks if I’m sure.
The second semester of senior year somehow arrived without asking permission.
More of late nights studying, big decisions, and pretending I understand what a five-year plan is supposed to look like.
This year isn’t about chasing after sparks that burn hot and disappear faster than my motivation during finals week. I’m done sprinting after love like it’s the last train out of town.
Of course, I still believe in love. I always will. I just refuse to keep orbiting around it like it’s the sun. It’ll happen when it happens, but right now I can’t make it a priority.
For once, I’m choosing me; my goals, my peace, and my future.
Coffee dates with my own ambition. Long walks with my thoughts. Saying yes to things that feel steady instead of dizzy and messy.
I smooth my top, tilt my chin, and give my reflection a small, conspiratorial smile.
“This semester doesn’t get to define me.” I murmur out loud before walking into it on my own terms, head held high and heart intact... or at least under new management.
The hallway outside the dorm hums with the sounds of hundreds of co-eds.
Doors slam.
Someone blasts throwback 2000s pop like it’s a public service, even though it’s 8:30 in the morning.
A guy jogs past holding a whole ass toaster like he’s fleeing a crime scene.
I’m halfway down the stairs, juggling my tote, a notebook that has seen better days, and a coffee that is seconds away from betraying me, when I hear the sound of laughter that I could pinpoint anywhere.
The laughter of my very best friend, Hanna Wynters.
I don’t just hear it, but feel it. It cuts through everything, bright and warm and unmistakable, like someone just opened a window in a stuffy room.
Hanna has the kind of laugh that makes strangers smile and anyone close enough to her lose their train of thought for a second.
I slow, already smiling before I spot her.
She’s leaning against the railing like she owns the place. Her dark hair is pulled back into an effortless ponytail, with her fringe framing her face.
Even though she’s small, it feels like she somehow takes up more space than anyone else, all quiet confidence and soft edges that still manage to command attention.
Of course, glued to her side like gravity itself is her boyfriend, Ellis. Or, as I like to call him, Tattoo Hand.
He wears a black tee that matches Hanna’s black dress. He has an arm around Hanna’s waist, and his dark curls fall into his eyes due to his head is tilted down toward her.
They exist in their own little world, fitting together so perfectly without meaning to. It’s disgustingly cute.
“Wow,” I announce, clapping once for dramatic effect. “Who approved this level of public affection before noon? Some of us are trying to be single in peace.”
Ellis lifts his head slowly, as if I’ve mildly inconvenienced him by existing. “Good morning, Brielle. You look loud today.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “It’s my personality.”
Hanna breaks away and barrels into me, wrapping me in a hug that smells like vanilla lotion and citrus shampoo—the olfactory equivalent of emotional safety.
“I missed you,” she says into my shoulder.
“You saw me yesterday.”
“Yes,” she says seriously, pulling back. “but that’s not enough.”
I agree.
I squeeze her tighter because if there’s one thing I will never take for granted, it’s the way Hanna loves me loudly and without conditions. The feeling is mutual.
“You’re stealing my girlfriend again,” Ellis complains jokingly.
“It’s not stealing,” I say. “It’s reclaiming shared property.”
After Hanna lets go of me, she moves to slip her hand back into Ellis' like it’s second nature; no hesitation, no performance. Just certainty.
I resist the urge to stare like I’m some documentary narrator observing rare wildlife.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
I only occasionally experience mild emotional whiplash when confronted with such functional romance.
“So,” I say, rocking back on my heels, “to what do we owe this rare Hanna Wynters dorm appearance? I thought you’d fully migrated to Casa de Ellis.”
“Paperwork,” she says. “Technically, I still live here.”
“You’re basically going to become an urban legend at this point,” I reply. “People whisper about you in the laundry room. Of course, I always defend your honor.”
Ellis leans down and murmurs something in her ear. Hanna rolls her eyes but smiles.
I suddenly become fascinated by a curled and weathered poster on the wall.
I won’t lie, I wish I had what they have.
I want quiet certainty. A hand that reaches for yours without thinking. Someone who chooses you like it’s obvious.
Ellis catches me looking. “You good?”
“Thriving,” I say brightly. “Absolutely flourishing. Have I told you recently that I decided to retire from romantic delusion for the foreseeable future? From now to graduation my focus is on me. Growth. Stability. Being forever single while I scoff at you lovebirds.”
Hanna squeezes my hand. “You won’t be single forever,” she says gently. “You just have to find the right one.”
I laugh, making sure it's bubbly and bright. That’s my specialty after all. “Yeah, I’m sure finding him will be just as easy as finding Bigfoot. What an adventure.”
Ellis laughs, while Hanna bumps her shoulder gently against mine.
We walk together toward the quad, sunlight spilling across the path, and leaves skittering in the breeze. Ellis peels off toward where his motorcycle waits. Hanna gives me another hug before she heads off to her first class of the day calling out, “Text me later.”
“I will. See you later.”
I adjust my bag, take a sip of coffee, and step forward.
Then I hear an all too familiar voice:
“Bri?”
