Loving Him

The hallways of Maple Hill High smelled the same just as always like disinfectant, cheap perfume, and teenage dramas. Lockers slammed. Laughter echoed. Sneakers squeaked against polished floors. For most students, it was just the beginning of another devastating school year. For me? It was the final lap. Senior year finally. I clutched my schedule in one hand and my favorite pen in the other. I had color-coded everything over the weekend class blocks in blue, lunch in green, library time in pink. I had a plan, and sticking to it was how I’d make it out free of Maple Hill with my scholarship intact. “Layla!” Serena’s voice cut through the noise, her lovely curls bouncing as she hurried toward me. “Oh my God, tell me you didn’t get Ms. Callahan for English again.” I smiled. “I did. Third year in a row.” She winced. “Yikes. At least I got Mr. Brewer. He’s cute. Old, but like... the charming uncle type.” I laughed, slipping my schedule into my binder. “You’re impossible.” We walked together toward the main building, arms brushing like always. Serena was my best friend, my first day one girl. She’d stuck by me through everything from middle school braces to heartbreak over my first almost boyfriend. “You hear about the new guy?” she asked as we rounded the corner. “Tall, Wears headphones. Has a death glare?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean like- half the guys in this school?” “No, Lay, this one is different. He transferred in late last semester but never really showed up to stuff. His name is Jayden something. Word is he got expelled from his last school.” “Sounds... dramatic.” “It’s Maple Hill. We live on drama.” We paused at my locker. I was spinning the lock when someone bumped into me—hard. My binder slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor, papers scattering like confetti all around. “Watch it,” I muttered, kneeling down. “I should say the same to you.” I looked up—and there he was. Headphones slung around his neck. Hood up despite the heat. Sharp cheekbones and stormy eyes that looked straight through me. His voice was low, lazy, almost bored. Jayden Black. So the rumors were true. “Maybe try not walking backward in a hallway,” he added, kneeling briefly to gather a few of my papers before tossing them on top of my binder. He stood again without another word and walked off, earbuds back in place. “What a jerk,” Serena hissed. “That’s him. Jayden Black.” “I got it, thanks.” She leaned in. “Forget him. We’ve got Calculus next and Mr. Ford hates late comings.” But I couldn't help thinking about him. The way his voice lingered, the way his eyes seemed to carry a thousand unspoken things. He had not really apologized. Had not smiled. Had not cared. I wasn’t supposed to care either. And yet, something tugged at me. --- Calculus passed in a blur of equations and Mr. Ford’s dry jokes. Lunch was the same swirl of crowded tables and cafeteria noise. Serena filled me in on her summer crush, while I pretended to listen and tried to push Jayden’s face out of my thoughts. Then came Chemistry. I sat down in my usual spot—second row, window seat, perfect view of the whiteboard and close enough to the exit. We were assigned lab partners in alphabetical order, and I silently hoped for someone I could work with easily. “Layla Harper,” the teacher called. “You’re with Jayden Black.” I froze. Of course. Of course. He walked in just then, late as usual, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the empty seat beside me. He said nothing, just sat down and pulled out a pencil. His fingers were stained with graphite. “Guess we’re stuck together,” I said after a few seconds. He didn’t look at me. “Guess so.” We started with the safety checklist, and for the next twenty minutes, we worked in silence. I filled in answers while he sketched something on the edge of the worksheet. I tried not to look. Tried not to care. But when I caught a glimpse of what he was drawing—a rough sketch of a girl with long curls and eyes that looked suspiciously like mine I felt something twist in my chest. “Is that supposed to be me?” I asked, half amused, half stunned. He paused, then tore the corner off the paper, crumpled it, and shoved it in his bag. “It’s nothing,” he said. Right. Nothing. Except it did not feel like nothing. It felt like the beginning of something I was definitely not ready for.