love me at my worst

CHAPTER THREE

Adam's POV:

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the last of the class trickling out. I leaned against the doorframe, pretending to scroll through my phone, but really, I was watching "her"

Emily Jacob. Twelve years in the same school, and she still moved like she was trying not to be seen—quiet, deliberate, folding into herself like a note passed under a desk. But I always noticed.

She was bent over her notebook, dark hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers fumbling with her pen. I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.

Our eyes met. Just for a second.

Hers widened startled, like a deer caught in headlights and her pen clattered to the floor.

Shit.

I forced my gaze back to my phone, pulse hammering. Stupid. Stupid to stare. She probably thought I was laughing at her. Or worse—that I didn’t even "see" her.

But I did. Always had.

I walked out of the room immediately

---

Later, at home, I dug through the shoebox under my bed—old baseball cards, concert tickets, s**t I never threw away. And there it was: a crumpled drawing from first grade, signed in shaky letters.

To Adam, Happy Birthday! Emily

I’d kept it. Like an i***t.

Twelve years. And the only thing I’d ever given her was a birthday card which I don't know if she kept,two seconds of eye contact and a lifetime of silence.