It’s 11:47 PM, and I’m sitting on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, my back against the tub. The party is still roaring on the other side of the door—bass thumping through the walls, laughter echoing up the stairs. I should be out there. I’m the one who planned the playlist. I’m the one who bought the extra guacamole. I’m the one everyone expects to be smiling.
I’m staring at my phone screen. The cursor blinks on a half-typed text to a person I’ll call “E.” I’ve known E for three years. We’ve shared a blanket during a power outage. We’ve fought about whether Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is romantic or tragic (I said both; they said neither). And tonight, I watched them put their hand on someone else’s lower back. Just a casual thing. A friendly gesture. But the way their fingers curled? That wasn’t friendly. kenzie love pov
My name is Kenzie Love, and I have spent my entire life trying to live up to my surname. It’s 11:47 PM, and I’m sitting on the
“You’re Kenzie Love,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t beg. You don’t chase. You feel things, but you don’t let them drown you.” I’m the one who planned the playlist
Instead, I stand up. I splash cold water on my face. I look at my reflection—messy bun, mascara slightly smudged, a small silver necklace with a crescent moon that E gave me for my birthday. I touch the charm. It’s warm from my skin.
Too confrontational. Delete. “Are you okay? You seemed… distracted.” Too passive. Delete. “I think I’m in love with you and it’s making me stupid.”