Too Right to be Real

I jolted awake. My hand shot out blindly, knocking over my phone before I finally grabbed it from the lampstand. 8:30. My heart dropped. I’m late. I was out of bed in seconds, moving on pure panic. Shower—too quick. Toothbrush—barely enough. Clothes—half right, half rushed. I didn’t even check the mirror. There was no time. I grabbed a slice of bread on my way out, taking a hurried bite as I rushed past the living room. “Mum, I’m late!” I called, leaning in just long enough to peck her cheek before heading for the door. “Again?” she said, but I was already gone. The morning air hit my face as I stepped outside— Just in time to see the school bus pulling away. I froze. For half a second. That was all it took for frustration to rise, sharp and immediate. Of course. Of course this would happen today. I clenched my jaw, the urge to scream bubbling up in my chest—but I swallowed it down . What was the point? So I turned to my only option. My bike. It looked exactly how it always did. Old. Worn. Tired. Rust clung stubbornly to the chains, and the seat dipped slightly in the middle like it had given up trying to hold its shape years ago. I grabbed it anyway. The moment I started pedaling, it protested. A loud, uneven creak that followed every movement. Embarrassing. Annoying. Unavoidable. Still, I rode. Faster. Harder. Like I could outrun the sound. Like I could outrun the stares. Heads turned as I passed. Some surprised. Some amused. Some… not even trying to hide their disgust. I ignored all of it. I always do. Because this? This is normal. Martins was a jock. No— the jock. Tall. Confident. Effortlessly charming. The kind of boy people noticed without trying—the kind of boy who didn’t have to work for attention because it followed him anyway. The kind of boy who belonged. And me? I was the girl with the rusty bike. The scholarship kid. The one people noticed for all the wrong reasons. Still… Somehow— He had looked at me that day. Really looked. Not past me. Not through me. At me. Like I wasn’t invisible. It had been so unexpected, so out of place, that for a moment, I’d actually looked behind me. Just to be sure. But no. It was me. His gaze had held mine, steady, unreadable—and then— “Will you be my Val?”