Burn me slowly

Chapter One:The Boy Who Made Me Cry

Faye

Five years ago, if you’d told me I’d see him again, I’d have laughed in your face. Or cried. Most likely cried.

Back then, I was the girl with crooked glasses, mismatched socks, and an anxious heartbeat that sped up every time he walked past me in the hall. Every time he made a joke at my expense. Every time his stupid friends laughed while I wished the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.

I wasn’t invisible, exactly. More like a cautionary tale, an easy target, the punchline nobody felt guilty about. My old life was a series of bruises, mostly invisible but bruises all the same. I’d replay those moments endlessly, the sting sharper in my mind than any physical pain.

And now, here I am, standing on the campus of Saint Renée University in New Orleans, thousands of miles away from the snow-covered misery of Canada, about to start over. New place, new me. No more crooked glasses. No more shrinking into myself. No more wishing I could disappear.

Until I saw him.

Ezra Locke.

My past in human form.

He hasn’t changed much. Still tall. Still effortlessly hot in that rich-boy-who-knows-it kind of way. Still got that same smirk. The one that curled on his lips right before he ruined someone’s day, usually mine.

He was standing across the quad, the late afternoon sun catching on his perfectly styled hair, surrounded by a group of people who clearly knew who he was. Figures. He’s always had that magnetic thing going on, the kind that made people orbit him like he was the center of the damn universe.

I slipped past, head down, fingers clutched tight around the straps of my backpack. It’s fine. He probably doesn’t remember me. He probably doesn’t remember anything. High school was years ago, and I was nobody. A memory that didn’t stick.

So why did my throat tighten?

Why did my stomach churn like I was sixteen again, hiding in the bathroom crying because he’d called me "Ugly Duckling" in front of the entire cafeteria?

Why did part of me still wish he’d look up and see me? Really see me? Not as some background noise or joke—but me.

God, I’m pathetic.

“Faye!”

I turned. It was Sam, my roommate. All bubbly and sunshine, the human version of a golden retriever. She waved wildly from the admin building steps, a big envelope in hand.

“You got paired for the Lit Theory project already!” she called. “Wanna guess who with?”

I crossed the quad with growing dread.

“Don’t say something stupid,” I muttered. “Like…”

“Ezra Locke!” she beamed.

I blinked. Laughed nervously. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.”

I stared at the paper she handed me. Ezra Locke. My name, Faye Grayson, scrawled right beneath his.

There it was. The universe’s twisted little joke.

“I hate this school,” I said quietly.

Sam patted my back sympathetically. “I mean, he’s super hot.”

“He’s super evil.”

She raised a brow. “You two got history?”

“Yeah,” I said, crumpling the paper. “He was the villain in my origin story.”

The Lit Theory class was held in a massive hall with red velvet seats and arched windows that let in the golden sunset light. The kind of room that felt grand and intimidating all at once. I slipped in late, hoping to make it to the back unnoticed.

“Faye Grayson,” the lecturer, Dr. Mireaux, called.

I froze mid-step, heart jumping.

“Ezra Locke already picked a seat up front. You’re with him, remember?”

Muffled laughter from the crowd. I forced a smile and made my way down the aisle. My boots echoed way too loudly on the polished floor. Ezra didn’t look up from his notebook, the same smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

I sat beside him, eyes fixed on the board, trying to focus on the lecture, but my pulse roared loud enough to drown out Dr. Mireaux’s voice.

The lecturer droned on about postmodernism and the death of the author, but I was drowning in memories—each word mixing with the vivid replay of high school hallways and whispered taunts.

After class, he finally turned to me.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice hadn’t changed. Still smooth. Still the kind of voice that could sell lies as lullabies.

I stiffened. “Hi.”

“I’m guessing you’re Faye.”

“You guessed right.”

He squinted at me. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Bingo. He didn’t remember. My heart twisted, and not in relief.

“No,” I said flatly. “You don’t.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Alright. Let’s meet tomorrow at the library? I’ve got practice at four, but I can do six.”

“Fine.”

He walked away like he hadn’t shattered my entire adolescence. Like I was just a name on a paper. A project partner.

I stood there, fists clenched.

And for the first time in five years, I wanted to cry all over again.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My room was quiet, too quiet, but my head was anything but.

How could he not remember me? Was I really that forgettable?

I remembered everything, every cruel nickname, every joke, every hallway glance that left me feeling like a ghost in my own body. He was the reason I begged my mom to let us move. The reason I stayed up nights wondering what was wrong with me.

And he didn’t even remember.

I squeezed my pillow tighter, trying not to cry.

Then, just as I was drifting off, a knock sounded at my door.

I opened it cautiously and froze.

Ezra.

Same hoodie. Same smile. Holding a takeout box.

“Neighbor,” he said casually. Figured I’d introduce myself properly. You looked a little... overwhelmed today.”

I blinked. “How did you know which room was mine?”

He pointed next door.

My jaw dropped. “You’re living right next to me?”

He grinned. “Guess the universe likes drama.”

I snatched the box and shut the door without a word.

Through the wall, I heard him chuckle.

New city. New life.

Same damn nightmare.

That little moment, the knock, the awkward smile, the unexpected proximity, was like a cruel twist of fate wrapped in irony. It wasn’t just the past showing up. It was the past setting up camp right next door.

I hugged the takeout box close to my chest, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

Tomorrow, I'll have to face him again. Not just the boy who made me cry, but the guy who still had this strange, unshakable hold on me.

And honestly? I wasn’t sure if I was ready.