It all started on a Tuesday. Not just any Tuesday, but the kind of Tuesday where your coffee tastes like disappointment and your hair has given up on life completely.
Also, it was February. Which meant one thing at Riverside High: the dreaded Love Knot Challenge.
For those who don't know, it's this annual Valentine's event where the Student Council ties two random people's hands together with a red ribbon—sometimes three if they want a "love triangle moment"—and the girl gets blindfolded. Then, the poor victims are forced to walk around campus like some tragic romcom couple while everyone else takes pictures and posts them on TikTok with captions like "Riverside's cutest couple?" or "Shipping this!!!"
Basically, public humiliation in 4K.
"Where's Asteria?"
I froze when I heard my name. Turning around, I saw Chelsea—a classmate of mine, but more importantly, one of the Student Council event officials. Which immediately triggered my fight-or-flight response.
February. Student Council. Chelsea.
Oh no.
My eyes darted to her hands, praying she wasn't holding one of those cursed red ribbons or a blindfold.
Nothing. She was empty-handed. Thank God.
"Don't get mad, okay? I was just told to get you," she said, smiling like she wasn't about to ruin my entire day.
I instinctively took a step back. "Oh, hell no. If this is about the Love Knot thing, I swear, Chelsea, I will make whoever's behind this eat actual cow poop. I'm not kidding. I'll carve that into stone."
Chelsea snorted and doubled over laughing. "Relax! I'm just kidding, girl! You should've seen your face—priceless."
I glared. "You suck. Seriously."
"Chill! Mrs. Taylor just wants to see you. You're so dramatic."
Dramatic? Me? Please. These people have been trying to rope me into school events since freshman year. I've learned to be cautious.
I dragged myself toward the faculty room (well, "staff room," because America).
The hallway smelled like lemon-scented floor cleaner and despair. My sneakers squeaked against the linoleum, and I swear, every teacher I passed gave me that "We've got plans for you" look.
I muttered to myself, "If they try to make me do anything, I'm saying no. I don't care if they threaten to tank my grades. I'm not weak."
"Asteria!"
I turned around. It was Selena—not to be confused with Sely, who's a totally different person but, confusingly, also exists in my friend group.
"What?" I asked flatly.
She froze, blinked at me, then forced a laugh. "Ah… nothing. Forget it."
…Okay? Who calls someone's name just to not say anything? People at this school are either painfully bored or clinically insane.
"Selena! Hey! You still have your Love Knot!" Angelo, another Student Council rep, shouted from across the hall.
I paused, because I had to see who Selena's "partner" was.
And there he was—Sergie.
Yeah. That Sergie.
We'd known each other since we were kids—grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools our whole lives. He's a year older, tall, plays basketball and football for the varsity team, and has that annoyingly perfect "effortless hot guy" thing going for him. Girls basically melt whenever he's around.
No wonder Selena's practically in love with him.
I shrugged it off and kept walking toward the staff room. I peeked inside first (I've learned the hard way never to just waltz into that room), but Mrs. Taylor wasn't there.
Fine. Water break. I headed straight to the cafeteria for a bottle of water.
"Asteria!"
I turned, finding one of my best friends, Selene, standing by the vending machine.
"Ma'am Taylor's looking for you," she said, fighting back a laugh. "And uh… you're apparently one of the models for PE and Arts Week."
I snorted. "Yeah, right. Me? Modeling? Did you hit your head on a basketball hoop or something?"
"I'm serious!" she insisted.
I groaned. "Where is she?"
"Cafeteria," she said, pointing with her lips in that weirdly universal Filipino habit that somehow exists in my Asian American friends too because of me not that I claim I am entirely at fault for other people, cause let's be for real, THEY DONT EVEN KNOW ME. You see, I'm half asian. My mom's a Filipina, and Filipina moms have that influence. And also I have that influence to some of my friends, the close one to be specific.
"Come with me!" I grabbed her wrist, trying to drag her along for moral support.
She yanked her hand free. "Nope! Not getting involved. If I go with you, Mrs. Taylor might rope me into another singing competition. I'm done being the school's free entertainment."
"Please," I teased, "you literally perform at malls and weddings for fun."
"Yeah, but I choose those gigs. Mrs. Taylor emotionally blackmails people. It's different," Selene said, glaring like she had war flashbacks. "Go. Alone. Have fun being the next Tyra Banks."
She stormed off, leaving me to my fate.
Mrs. Taylor didn't even let me breathe.
"Oh, Asteria! Perfect. You're in the Modeling Showcase. And before you start, no, you don't get a choice. You know the rules—either you walk that runway, or you fail your major subjects. Your pick."
I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled.
"Yes, Mrs. Taylor," I muttered.
Typical. Sely had cried her eyes out when she got forced into this last year. I guess it was my turn to suffer.
Back in the classroom, I slammed my bag on my desk and glared at Eve and Sely.
"You two," I growled. "This is your fault."
They were grinning like they'd just set fire to my house and were waiting for the insurance payout.
"How's our runway star?" Eve smirked.
I flipped her off.
Before I could further plot my revenge, Angelo barged in again, waving a clipboard.
"Sely! Alcy! You're our batch reps for the Valentine's Duet Contest. Find your partners. Now. And, you know the drill—either you perform or you fail your major subjects."
Sely facepalmed so hard I swear I heard the smack echo. Alcy didn't care; she lives for this stuff.
"Who am I even supposed to duet with?" Sely groaned.
"My cousin," I said casually, sipping my water.
"Yeah, hug him, kiss him, make it romantic—" Eve added with an evil grin.
"Straight to the bedroom!" Sely yelled, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.
Fast forward, Valentine's Week.
Our school looked like Cupid had overdosed on pink glitter and balloons. Everywhere you turned, there were banners, hearts, awkward couples, and the faint smell of overpriced roses.
PE and Arts Week was in full swing, which basically meant everyone was either stressed, crying, or both.
Sely didn't even find her duet partner until the night before. Alcy was practicing like she was auditioning for Broadway. Meanwhile, Eve and Marie lounged around sipping boba like the chaos wasn't their problem.
"Asteria! Chev! Ced!" Angelo barked, waving us over for the photoshoot.
Chevy had his DSLR, Cedric was shirtless (as usual), and I had my outfits ready.
We spent all day shooting around campus—morning, afternoon, golden hour. While volleyball and basketball teams practiced, while tennis matches happened, while singing contestants wailed their hearts out in the music room.
Honestly? If it weren't for this modeling nightmare, I'd be one of those carefree students just roaming around with a frappuccino, judging everyone else.
Instead, I was walking in heels on grass while pretending not to fall on my face.
Then came the actual runway show.
Disaster struck when Cedric bailed last minute, leaving me without a partner.
Cue Carlos, who volunteered out of nowhere. Zero practice. Zero coordination. But he somehow pulled it off.
We ended up winning—me taking first place, Carlos runner-up. There were flowers, photos, fake smiles, and the overwhelming urge to nap for three days straight.
And then…
"Ahhhhhh!"
"Eeeeeek!"
My classmates started screaming like Taylor Swift had just walked in.
I turned—and saw Sergie.
Yep. That Sergie.
Walking toward me. Holding a bouquet of roses.
"Congratulations," he said smoothly, handing me the flowers before flashing a small smile and walking away like he hadn't just broken my brain.
The hallway exploded.
"What was THAT?" Marie hissed. "Are you two, like… a thing? I thought he was into Selena?!"
I had no answers. My brain had officially checked out.
Later that night, I checked my phone.
A new Messenger notification popped up:
Hey! Congratulations again!
What the hell?
Why was he texting me?
Was this… was he actually…?
I typed back, because I'm not the type to overthink quietly:
Are you crushing on me?
A moment later, the three dots appeared.
Then his reply came:
What if I am?
And that's when my entire life officially spiraled into a Wattpad cliché.