Two weeks had passed since Vanessa first tried to shove her tangled mess of feelings into neat, silent boxes.
And to her surprise—her genuine, skeptical, quietly relieved surprise—she had started to get the hang of it.
Not perfect. Not even close. But something had shifted. She was managing to compartmentalize—whatever that even truly meant. It wasn't that the emotions were gone; they were just... quieter. Manageable. She could focus more—on training, on school, on getting through a full conversation without wanting to throttle Ethan every five minutes.
Well, maybe every ten.
She could ignore the stupid smirk he wore like second skin. She could tune out the taunting little comments, the subtle nudges that always danced too close to being more than teasing. It wasn't easy, but it was working. Mostly.
And then came the final day of school.
The air felt different—charged with something intangible and heavy, like static clinging to bare skin just before a storm. A concoction of energy too complex to describe: part excitement, part relief, and an undertow of aching nostalgia.
It was the kind of day where everything felt brighter, sharper, like time was folding in on itself. Like a chapter was closing and the characters were being forced to notice. Every breath she took felt more meaningful, every glance a little too lingering. Even the silence seemed loaded.
In the cafeteria, students were clustered together in messy little pockets of history. Yearbooks passed from hand to hand, pens scratched out hurried goodbyes and hopeful promises. People were crying, laughing, hugging like they meant it. Vanessa watched it all through a filter of mild detachment, like she was floating above her body, watching the scene unfold without really being in it.
At their usual table, she sat with her yearbook cracked open, trying to act casual while one of her friends scribbled something in bubbly handwriting that took up way too much space. Her eyes kept darting across the table, though she told herself she wasn't looking for anything in particular.
Ethan was there, of course. As usual. Unbothered. Unreadable. A book in his hands, not his yearbook—because of course he didn't care enough to play along.
She frowned. "You're not getting yours signed?"
He didn't even glance up. "It's in my bag."
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "You could at least pretend to care."
The look he shot her—half amusement, half boredom—landed like a stone in her stomach. Do I look like I care?
God, he was infuriating.
But before she could say anything, Hannah appeared, her usual whirlwind energy disrupting the mood like a pebble thrown into still water.
"Alright, let me write in yours, V," she chirped, grabbing the yearbook from Vanessa without waiting for a response.
Hannah scribbled something with a flourish, then glanced at Ethan. "Where's yours?"
Without a word, Ethan pointed to his bag like it was some monumental effort.
Vanessa huffed. "Lazy ass." She ducked under the table, yanked the bag open, and grabbed the yearbook herself. "At least keep it out if people wanna sign it."
She didn't think twice. Not really. Just tossed it on the table, assuming Ethan wouldn't care. Assuming it wouldn't matter.
But then the day unfolded.
And it started.
First, it was just a girl or two. Nothing major. Just classmates, probably. Harmless. She didn't even register it, at first. The way they walked over with smiles a little too bright, voices just a little too sugary. The way they leaned in, their pens flying across the pages with cutesy little hearts dotting the "i"s in their names.
Then it happened again.
And again.
It started becoming a pattern.
A parade.
By the time they hit lunch, it was a damn epidemic.
Girls she didn't even know, and worse—girls she did—were lining up like it was a meet-and-greet. Like Ethan was the campus celebrity and she was just background noise. They'd approach with faux-shyness, giggle through awkward one-liners, twirl strands of hair like they were in some stupid teen drama.
Vanessa watched it all.
Watched them flirt. Watched them linger. Watched them try.
And Ethan?
Didn't give a damn.
Didn't flirt back. Didn't glance up. Didn't smirk or lean in or crack any of his usual smartass remarks. He just sat there, flipping through his book, entirely unmoved by the circus happening at his elbow.
And somehow—that made it worse.
Because he didn't even have to try.
He didn't need to flirt or smile or charm. They just came. Drawn to him like moths to flame, not caring if they got burned.
Vanessa's stomach twisted into knots. Her thoughts were loud, jumbled, shamefully irrational. What the hell was so appealing about someone who barely acknowledged their existence? Why were they acting like he was some prize to be won?
Why did it bother her this much?
By the time the final bell rang, she was a volcano with a pretty face—simmering just below the surface, one breath away from eruption.
She slammed her locker so hard the sound echoed down the hallway. She didn't care. She gripped her yearbook with white knuckles, biting back everything she wanted to scream.
She turned the corner, spotted him at his locker, and snapped.
"Twenty-three."
Ethan turned, brows raised. "Twenty-three what?"
"Twenty-three different girls put their numbers in your damn yearbook."
He blinked. "You counted?"
Vanessa's eyes flashed. "Of course I counted! I had to sit there and watch while they all threw themselves at you!"
He tilted his head, expression maddeningly calm. "I wasn't paying attention."
"Oh, well they were," she hissed.
She shoved his yearbook into his chest hard enough to jostle him. "Go ahead. Take a look. See how many of them want to 'study with you' or 'keep in touch over the summer.'" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Some of them got real creative."
Ethan sighed, slow and heavy, like she was the one exhausting him.
He opened the yearbook and flipped through it lazily, eyes scanning the pages.
His lips twitched. "Huh."
Vanessa crossed her arms, glaring. "What?"
Ethan turned it toward her. "Some of them wrote in yours too."
She blinked, leaned in—and then it hit.
It wasn't notes. It was poison.
"You don't deserve him."
"I don't get what he sees in you."
"He could do so much better."
The words stabbed deeper than she thought possible. Tiny, shallow cuts that collectively bled her dry. Her chest burned with humiliation and something darker. Rage? Insecurity? A venomous blend of both?
Ethan shut the book with a snap. "So dramatic," he muttered. "Don't let it get to you."
"Don't let it get to me?" Her voice was sharp, incredulous. "Are you serious right now?"
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you the one with catty little hate notes in your book?"
Ethan shrugged, as if it meant nothing. "No, but I also don't care."
Vanessa stared at him, disbelief blooming in her chest. "I hate you."
His smirk was small but lethal. "No, you don't."
And she didn't. That was the damn problem.
She wanted to smack the arrogance off his face. Or maybe kiss it. Both. Probably in that order.
Her brain was a tornado of emotion, her body buzzing like live wire—and then, just as she started to build up steam, Ethan did something that shattered her rhythm.
He held out his yearbook.
"Here," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"I don't need it."
Her mouth went dry. "What do you mean you don't need it?"
He looked at her—really looked. And something in his voice went quiet. Uncharacteristically sincere.
"I have you. That's all that matters."
It was simple. Soft. And devastating.
The anger dissolved so fast it left her dizzy. That burning jealousy that had fueled her all day? Gone. Replaced by a warmth so disarming it made her want to scream. Or cry. Or crawl under the table and just feel everything until it made sense.
She wanted to tell him to shut up. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to melt into him and never explain why.
Instead, she rolled her eyes, snatched the yearbook from his hands, and muttered under her breath—
"Idiot."
But she held onto it. Tightly.
The damn yearbook was going up in flames tonight.
Vanessa could already see it—so vividly it almost felt like déjà vu. She'd sneak out after midnight, the house quiet and cloaked in that strange hush only summer nights could offer. She'd tiptoe into the backyard, barefoot, fingers clutching the yearbook like it was a cursed artifact. She'd toss it into the fire pit, hear the pages crackle, see the soft gold letters on the cover blacken and curl. Watch twenty-three names and numbers, twenty-three hearts and winks and lingering messages—each one an open wound—twist in the flames until they were just ash.
Poetic. Symbolic. Therapeutic.
Absolutely necessary.
Because every time her eyes so much as brushed that stupid book, her chest clenched. Her breath would catch in her throat. Her thoughts would spiral into a dark, chaotic storm of why does this bother me so much and why didn't he care and why the hell does this feel like betrayal even though it isn't?
Because it wasn't betrayal. Not really. Ethan hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he'd done nothing at all. And that was the problem.
He hadn't acknowledged the attention, hadn't entertained a single one of those girls. No smirks. No flirty comebacks. Not even a glance when someone tried to "accidentally" brush his arm. He'd stayed exactly as he always was—cool, unreadable, frustrating.
And yet Vanessa felt scorched.
Then, to top it all off—because of course nothing could ever be simple—he had leaned in when he dropped her off earlier that day, looked her dead in the eye with that maddening calm, and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Slow. Lazy. Like he hadn't just spent the entire day being fawned over. Like she wasn't still seething with jealousy.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he'd murmured, like everything was perfectly normal.
Then he rode off, the sound of his motorcycle fading into the distance, leaving her standing in the driveway with heat blooming under her skin and a million emotions bottlenecking in her throat.
She'd stayed there for a full minute, hands clenched into fists, the yearbook digging into her palm like it wanted to be set on fire.
And then she stomped inside.
Only to be intercepted the second her foot crossed the threshold.
Her mother was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of tea in her hand. Always somehow knowing exactly when to appear. Like she had a sixth sense for teenage emotional catastrophes.
Her gaze drifted over, sharp and assessing. "Why do you look both furious and ridiculously happy at the same time?"
Vanessa froze mid-step.
The yearbook was still clutched in her hand, held so tightly the corners had bent. Her mother's eyes dropped to it, then back to her face, one perfectly arched brow lifting in amusement.
"And why does that poor book look like it personally insulted you?"
Vanessa let out a huff and kicked off her shoes. "Because twenty-three different girls decided to turn Ethan's yearbook into a damn dating profile."
Her mother blinked, momentarily thrown. "...Excuse me?"
Vanessa stormed past her, slapped the book onto the counter with enough force to rattle her mom's mug. "You heard me. Twenty-three different girls wrote their numbers, flirty messages, and whatever else in his yearbook today."
For a moment, there was silence.
And then—laughter.
Her mother laughed so hard she had to set down her tea and hold onto the counter for support. Her shoulders shook, tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and Vanessa felt her jaw drop.
"This isn't funny!" she cried.
"Oh, sweetheart," her mother wheezed. "It's hilarious."
"Mom!"
"What do you want me to say?" Her mother grinned, wiping at her face. "That I'm shocked Ethan is getting that kind of attention? Please. Have you seen him?"
Vanessa stared in disbelief. "Oh my God."
"Don't 'oh my God' me," her mom said, still smirking. "You should've expected this. He's tall, good-looking, and he has that whole moody-bad-boy thing going on—brooding enough to make every hormone-ridden teenage girl lose her damn mind. And most importantly? He doesn't chase anyone. That makes them want him even more."
Vanessa scowled, dragging both hands through her hair. "That is not helping."
"Oh, but I'm having a great time."
With a groan, Vanessa let her head drop onto the counter. The surface was cool against her forehead. Grounding. Maybe if she stayed here long enough, she'd just melt into it and disappear entirely.
Her mother's hand reached over, warm and surprisingly gentle as it patted her head like she was five years old again. "And you're jealous."
"Of course I'm jealous!" Vanessa lifted her head again, eyes blazing. "They were shameless, Mom! Some of them even wrote in my yearbook—nasty little things like 'he could do better' and 'you don't deserve him.'"
The air shifted.
Her mother's entire expression changed—amusement draining from her face like a tide receding.
"They what?"
Vanessa's grip on the counter tightened until her knuckles turned white. "Yeah. Real classy, right?"
Her mother was quiet for a second too long. Then: "Do you have names?"
Vanessa blinked. "What?"
"Names," she repeated, voice eerily calm now. The kind of calm that came before a storm. "Of the girls who wrote that in your book."
Vanessa stared at her. "What are you going to do, hunt them down?"
"Maybe," her mother said without an ounce of irony. "Or I could have a very interesting chat with the principal."
"Mom, it's fine," Vanessa said quickly.
"It is not fine." Her mother's jaw was tight now. "I'm proud of you for not starting a fight, but that kind of thing? It's disgusting. They're bitter because Ethan didn't so much as look at them. And if they really knew how much of his attention you have..." She smirked again. "Let's just say they'd feel pretty stupid."
Vanessa's lips twitched. Despite herself, a small smile crept in. "Oh, if only they knew."
Her mom tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Exactly."
They were quiet for a beat. Then, as casually as someone asking about the weather, her mother said, "So. How did Ethan react?"
Vanessa drew in a breath, her fingers brushing the edge of the yearbook. "At first? He just shrugged. Said he didn't notice. That it didn't mean anything."
Her mom nodded. "And then?"
Vanessa hesitated.
The words replayed in her head, looping like a song she couldn't stop hearing.
I don't need it. I have you. That's all that matters.
There had been something about the way he'd said it—steady, low, too quiet to be a performance. Like it was a truth he'd accepted long before she even realized it mattered.
And the second he'd said it, something inside her had cracked open. Not broken. Just... opened. Like something warm had spilled into the spaces that had been tense all day.
She could still feel the ghost of that warmth.
Her cheeks flushed just remembering it.
Her mother watched her closely. "Vanessa?"
Clearing her throat, she looked away. "He... gave me the book."
Her mom blinked. "He what?"
"He handed it to me. Said he didn't need it." Vanessa glanced down, her voice softening. "Because he already had me."
The silence was different now.
Not shocked.
Just... pleased.
A slow, delighted grin spread across her mother's face like sunlight creeping over the horizon.
"Ooohhh," she said, voice smug with satisfaction. "That's why you looked so ridiculously happy when you walked in."
Vanessa groaned, pressing her palms to her face. "Mom—"
"No, no, don't ruin it for me," her mother laughed. "Let me bask in this moment."
Vanessa shook her head, trying not to smile. It wasn't working.
"So," her mom said with a little sparkle in her eye. "What's the plan?"
Vanessa didn't hesitate.
"Burn it."
Her mother burst out laughing again, nearly choking on her tea. "Good girl."
Vanessa wanted to burn the damn thing right then and there.
The yearbook lay like a loaded weapon in her hands—innocuous in appearance, soft-covered and decorated with the cheesy gold-foil crest of their high school—but inside, it was a minefield. A collection of sighs and giggles and desperate pleas, all aimed at the boy who belonged to her. A boy who, apparently, was desired by every girl with a pen and an overactive imagination.
She wanted to rip it in half. Toss it into the fireplace and listen to the spine crackle and bend beneath the weight of her fury. She wanted to watch the flames devour each saccharine message, each sultry little scribble meant to wedge itself between her and Ethan. Her Ethan.
But...
Curiosity was a wicked thing.
With a sharp sigh and a muttered curse, she flopped onto her bed, yearbook clutched like a war document. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the cover. Maybe part of her still hoped she was overreacting. Maybe there was a sliver of a chance it wasn't as bad as it felt.
That hope died quickly.
The first page was already a battlefield—names scrawled in loopy, lovesick handwriting, accompanied by phone numbers and winking faces and glittery gel ink. All of it a chaotic symphony of flirtation and ego-stroking. The kind of messages that made her teeth grind.
"Call me anytime, I promise I'll make it worth your while ;)"
Vanessa scoffed aloud, her nails digging into the edges of the page.
"Ethan, I've always admired you from afar. Maybe we can change that? <3"
Change what, exactly? His relationship status?
And then—
"I bet I could take her place."
Her stomach dropped.
That one wasn't playful. It wasn't teasing. It was venom in cursive—sharp, presumptive, and ugly. The implication curled inside her like smoke in her lungs. The boldness of it, the sheer disrespect.
Her grip tightened until the paper groaned beneath her fingers. Her throat felt tight. Her entire face flushed with something between humiliation and fury.
It would've been so easy—so easy—to tear the page out. To destroy it completely. But instead, she forced herself to turn away, reach for her own yearbook, and flip through it with mounting dread.
And of course, they had written in hers too.
Because girls like that didn't just go after the guy—they went after the girl who had him.
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
"He could do so much better."
"You don't deserve him."
Her jaw locked.
It wasn't just about Ethan anymore. It was about the way these girls had looked at her all year. The subtle digs, the fake smiles. The moments she had doubted herself—doubted them—only to now see those suspicions confirmed in blue and pink ink across glossy pages. She wasn't imagining it.
They hated her for having him.
They envied her. Wanted what she had. And they were willing to weaponize that envy, to twist it into cruelty and slap it between the pages of a goddamn memento.
Pathetic.
With a bitter laugh, Vanessa flipped further through Ethan's yearbook, expecting more of the same—more simpering, more strategic underhanded compliments, more attempts to stake a claim.
But then... something shifted.
Not every message was dripping with lust or jealousy.
Tucked between the glitter and eyeliner-scented perfume marks were real words. Genuine things.
Hannah's handwriting jumped out instantly—messy, unmistakable, and impossible not to smile at.
"You better keep that boy in check, Ness. But if the fangirls get out of hand, you call me. I've got brass knuckles and time."
Vanessa let out a soft snort.
Then there were a few from the guys—guys Ethan had never even mentioned. Not just classmates, but actual friends. Friends who wrote jokes only he would get, promises to hang out over the summer, or things like:
"Don't be a stranger. You're too damn good at disappearing."
And suddenly, it hit her.
Maybe Ethan did have friends.
She had spent so long thinking he was a loner by nature—someone who didn't need connection, didn't crave it. He always seemed so withdrawn, so quiet in crowds. She had assumed he simply preferred his own company. That she was the exception.
But this... this proved otherwise. He did have people. People who cared. People who respected him. People who saw him—not just as a crush or a fantasy—but as a person.
And in her infinite, occasionally overdramatic wisdom... she hesitated.
Then she reached for the scissors.
There was something therapeutic in it. Snip by snip, she carefully extracted the good. Hannah's note. The well-meaning jokes from the guys. Even the rare comment from girls who weren't trying to crawl into his lap. The pages took on a new kind of weight in her hands—one of truth, not projection.
She arranged them on a fresh, clean page in her own yearbook. Neatly. Lovingly. She glued them down like puzzle pieces, fitting Ethan's real connections into something she could keep. Something she chose.
Because screw it.
If Ethan wasn't going to appreciate these people, she would.
But the rest?
The rest had no place. Not in his life. Not in hers.
With deliberate movements, she tore the other pages out.All the venom in her yearbook all the personal attacks on her relationship her worth torn out. She stacked them into a pile, in his yearbook held them all tightly, and marched downstairs like a woman possessed.
The fire was already crackling when she got there.
She didn't hesitate.
Page after page curled in the flames, the ink blistering, the edges blackening as heat claimed them. She watched them fall into glowing orange embers. Watched their names vanish. Their smiles. Their hopes.
Gone.
And with every flame that consumed another confession, another insult, she felt the pressure in her chest start to ease.
The smirk that spread across her face was small, but real.
There.
Never to be seen by Ethan. Never to taint what they had. Never to sit in his room as a silent, poisonous reminder that girls had tried—really tried—to take what was hers.
She folded her arms, satisfaction settling deep in her ribs as the last of it burned to nothing.
Then—
"Vanessa, what on earth are you doing?"
The voice sliced through her triumph like a cold breeze. She flinched, just slightly.
Turning slowly, she saw her mother standing behind her, hands on her hips, mouth quirked in disbelief. She wore her robe and fuzzy slippers, but her gaze was sharp.
For a wild second, Vanessa considered playing dumb. Something ridiculous. "Oh, just destroying evidence, Mom. Nothing to see here."
But one look at her mother's expression—the blend of exasperation, curiosity, and something far too amused—told her that would never fly.
Her mom's eyes flicked to the fire, narrowing. "Wait... is that his yearbook?"
Vanessa tensed.
Her mom's brow lifted higher. "Vanessa. Please tell me you are not burning the entire yearbook over those twenty-three girls."
Vanessa huffed, turning back to the fire. "Why does everyone keep acting like twenty-three isn't a big number?!"
Her mother crossed her arms.
"They wrote their numbers in his book," Vanessa muttered, watching another page shrivel. "And some of them wrote—" she stopped short, jaw tightening. "They wrote some really annoying stuff in mine."
Her mother sighed. Not in judgment—more like fatigue. Like she understood. Too well.
"I get it, sweetheart," she said, voice softer now. "But you do realize other people could've written in that book too, right? Good people?"
Vanessa stilled.
A heartbeat passed.
"Tell me you at least checked before you—" her mother gestured toward the flames, "committed yearbook homicide."
Vanessa scoffed. "Of course I did. I'm not that dramatic."
Her mother arched a single brow.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. I cut out the good comments first. The ones from Hannah. Some of the guys. The decent people. I made a collage out of them."
Her mother blinked, taken aback. Then a small laugh slipped out. "So let me get this straight. You went through the effort of cutting out the nice comments, made a little scrapbook moment, and then torched everything else?"
Vanessa shrugged. "Yup."
"You're something else," her mom murmured, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose.
Vanessa offered a smug little smile. "Thank you."
The exasperation was clear—but under it, her mother's expression softened. Something close to pride flickered in her gaze.
"Well," she said finally, watching the fire consume the last embers, "at least you didn't throw the whole thing in."
She paused, then added, "Still... twenty-three, huh?"
Vanessa's smile twitched. The irritation surged again. "Twenty-three."
Her mother gave her a look—one that said she knew exactly what Vanessa was feeling. Vanessa turned away, muttering just loud enough to be heard:
"Not that I'm keeping count or anything."
Her mother outright laughed.
"Oh, sweetheart. You're so keeping count."
Vanessa didn't dignify that with a response.
~~~~~