When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Twelve: Mirror Paradox

Willow Harrison's POV

What if I just run away and leave this all behind?

I hated myself for thinking about it—more often than I wanted to admit.

I hated that my classmates were probably out right now, partying the night away, squeezing out the last bit of freedom before exams started on Monday.

I hated that I had to stay at home selflessly because my younger brother needed help with his homework; I never needed help.

I hated that I felt guilty of just telling them to get my younger brother a tutor because I was busy with my own studies because I knew we couldn't afford it.

I hated that Oliver Clarke seemed to have it all so easy. He didn't have to worry about anything or anyone else but himself. That would have been so easy.

But more than anything, I hated that I hated so much. Sometimes I worry if someone were to look inside my heart, it would be nothing but rage and hatred.

My mother, Abby, patted my head gently as she slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her bicycle. She was already halfway out the door, ready for another long night at the store. "Thank you for going home early today, Willow, and helping your brother. You know, I only finished high school—I’m not much help with homework."

She said it with a soft smile, like it wasn’t something she regretted. Like giving up her dreams was just part of growing up.

Both my parents had me young. Too young. And that’s why my mother had to let go of the things she once wanted for herself. That’s why their dream was for us to finish school, and if they had to work to the bone to make it happen, they would.

And as the firstborn, I carried those dreams, and god, do they feel so heavy.

I forced a smile as I lied, unconsciously biting my lips. "It's fine. It was just some school event. It wasn't even fun."

“You’ve always been so understanding and smart,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I really think you’ll be the one to fulfill your father’s dream. Imagine having an engineer, the first in our family. How did we even get lucky with you?”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Because I didn’t feel lucky.

I felt like I was always one step away from disappointing them.

Like I was living a life that was never really mine, just borrowed expectations and inherited dreams stitched into my skin before I even knew what I wanted.

They never forced me or pressured me to succeed; I did.

Their dreams are engraved, stitched into my spine, and untangling them would hurt so much that it seemed easier to leave them as they were. I wondered—if not me, then who? If I didn’t carry this burden, would anyone else?

It was better if it was me, so my younger brothers didn't have to.

I wanted to make them proud; to continue doing so, I wanted to return all the sacrifices they had given me, but it could be exhausting when I couldn’t help but think how other kids didn’t seem to feel as guilty as I did.

My younger brother, Watson, who was five years younger than me, sat hunched over his math notebook, his brow furrowed in frustration. He stared at the page, then up at me, his eyes wide with confusion. "I really don’t get it."

I paused for a moment, swallowing the frustration rising in my chest, then took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Okay, it’s just basic algebra. I learned a trick or two that’ll make it easier. I’ll teach you."

I slid my chair closer, pulling his notebook towards me. "See, this part is like a puzzle," I began, my fingers tracing the numbers on the page. "You just have to think about it a bit differently. Watch." I drew an imaginary line across the page in the air before starting to explain in a way that made it seem almost simple.

I didn’t notice the time passing. The clock on the wall ticked away, unnoticed by me, as I kept explaining and re-explaining until he got it.

But at some point, the soft breathing next to me changed. I turned to find Watson’s head leaning against the side of his notebook, his eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he fell asleep, still holding onto the page.

I smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Watson's forehead before standing up and gently draping a warm blanket over him. His small form relaxed further, a peaceful silence settling in the room. I took one last look at him before tiptoeing out, careful not to disturb the quiet that had enveloped the space.

Upstairs, I pushed open the door to William’s room, who was 10 years younger than me. The light from the hallway barely reached inside, but I could see his tiny body curled up under his blanket, his face softened in sleep.

Just then, I heard a knock outside. I opened the door to find Shian Matthews standing there, a plastic cup of iced coffee in one hand, his hoodie pulled halfway over his head like he had just thrown it on before stepping out. His eyes looked a little tired, like mine probably did, but they were kind. Always kind.

He held out the drink. “Figured you might need this,” he said, his voice quiet—careful, almost.

Shian had moved in across the street right before the semester started. We weren’t close, not exactly, but he had this habit of showing up, always bringing something. Thought I could never figure out why. He was part of the reserve team for the academic regionals—third place, almost tied with Oliver Clarke.

I took the drink with a soft “Thanks,” our fingers brushing for a second too long before I pulled back.

I don’t even like coffee.

But I didn’t say that. I just stood there, feeling the cool condensation against my palm, grounding in a way that words never could.

Shian gave me a small nod, lingering for a moment like he was about to say something more, when the sound of approaching footsteps caught both our attention.

I turned slightly and there he was.

Oliver Clarke. Unpredictable as always.

Oliver's hoodie was pulled lazily over his head, earphones dangling around his neck, and in his hand was a cold bottle of strawberry milk. My favorite. He stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking from me to Shian, then down at the drink I was holding.

“You left early, so I figured I'd drop by to see how you're doing,” he said, his voice calm, maybe even unreadable. “Thought you’d want the usual.”

He held out the strawberry milk without another word.

I froze for a second, the weight of both their gazes falling on me. I looked at the iced coffee in my left hand, still untouched, then reached out and took the bottle from Oliver with my right.

Shian chuckled beside me, his voice light but noticeably quieter than before. “Guess I brought the wrong one, huh?”

Oliver didn’t say anything, but I caught the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Not smug—just knowing.

I smiled, awkwardly shifting the coffee to my side as I mumbled, “It’s okay. It’s… really thoughtful. Thank you.”

But even as I said it, my fingers curled instinctively around the bottle Oliver brought. The one that felt familiar. It reminded me of the mirror paradox. The more it reflects what others need, the less of herself she recognizes.

And yet, somehow, Oliver sees past that reflection. He always has.