Chapter One: The Moment I First Saw Him (Part 2)
volume 1
Chapter One
“The Moment I First Saw Him”
Part 2
It wasn’t just that I liked him.
It wasn’t even just that I wanted him.
It was that I knew, somehow, some way, he was supposed to be mine.
That sounds insane, I know. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t appropriate.
I was fourteen. He was eighteen. He was in college. I hadn’t even started shaving my legs properly.
But feelings don’t wait for logic to approve them.
And mine had already bloomed.
The next few days, I did what any girl would do when she finds her future husband, I became a stalker. A harmless one. But still, a stalker.
I memorized his follower list.
I watched every story he posted and refreshed his profile at least six times a day.
I added his mother and liked a few of her old photos so my account would pop up in her notifications.
I learned the name of his dog, Milo.
I knew what university he went to. What his major was. That he played a sport. That he still visited home once or twice a month, mostly weekends.
But the most important discovery?
He had a younger brother.
One year younger than me.
Still in junior high.
And, according to his mom’s birthday post, scheduled to start my high school next year
I stared at the caption of that post for a full ten minutes.
It was like the universe opened a door
I didn’t have access to him.
But I could get close, very close, through the one person who shared both his home and his blood.
It wasn’t difficult.
When the younger brother finally joined our high school the next fall, I already knew his classes, his locker location, and the clubs he was interested in. I volunteered to help freshmen during orientation. I “accidentally” sat next to him during lunch. I complimented his hoodie. I asked if he needed help finding his chemistry lab.
At first, he was quiet, awkward even.
But I was persistent. I made him laugh. I gave him gum during homeroom. I made it easy for him to rely on me.
And by second semester?
We were best friends.
The beauty of that friendship was that it didn’t feel fake.
It started that way, yes, it started with a motive.
But after a while, I actually liked him. Not in a romantic way, obviously, but in a real way. He was funny, chill, low-maintenance, and a terrible texter. He loved sci-fi and sour candy and had the worst taste in music I’d ever heard. But he liked me. A lot.
He trusted me. Invited me over often. Gave me the grand tour of their house like I hadn’t already memorized the layout from the few seconds I walked him home a year ago.
I met his mom again, officially this time.
She was everything I hoped for: warm, loud, talkative, the kind of woman who smiled at strangers and hugged you too hard.
“Oh, you’re her,” she said the first time I stepped into their kitchen.
“The best friend. He never shuts up about you.”
I smiled sweetly.
I was in.
From that point on, it only got easier.
I started visiting their house regularly.
Sometimes after school. Sometimes weekends.
I helped set the table. Watched TV in the living room. Did homework on their kitchen counter.
I became a household name. A regular fixture.
And every time I came over, I asked casual little questions.
“Oh, who’s that in the picture?”
“Oh wow, is that your older son? He looks athletic.”
“Wait, he goes to [Insert College Name]?! That’s a great school.”
“Was that his ex? Oh, she’s really pretty!”
And God bless that woman, because she answered everything.
She didn’t know I was digging. She just loved to talk about her firstborn.
Thanks to her, I now knew:
His full name, birthday, and star sign
What he got on his SATs
The name of his first girlfriend
What his childhood nickname was
His favorite pasta
His biggest pet peeve (people who interrupt when he's thinking)
His least favorite food (seafood)
The fact that he never fully got over a girl named Aria who dumped him in his second year of college
I knew all of it.
And I stored it like treasure in a box only I could see.
And then… came the day he visited again.
The first time since that moment in the park.
The first time we were in the same room again, not strangers, not passersby. But… something closer.
I still remember the way I felt when I heard the door open and his voice call out, “Hey, I’m here!”
I froze.
My hands were sticky with orange juice. I was helping his mom set out snacks. I wiped them fast and fixed my hair in the reflection of the microwave. I wasn’t ready. I was never ready.
But then he walked into the kitchen.
Same smile. Same joggers. Same effortless aura.
He looked at me and paused.
“Oh. You must be the famous best friend.”
I smiled, casual. My heart was about to blow a hole through my ribs.
“That’s me.”
He stayed the weekend.
I stayed for dinner both days.
I laughed at his jokes. Dressed cute but not too obvious. Talked about school and asked him about college life. I threw in a little sarcasm, because I had memorized enough of his mom’s stories to know he liked witty girls.
He laughed. More than once.
That Sunday, he drove me home.
Just the two of us.
I sat in the front seat, trying not to look at him too much.
He asked about my classes. I asked about his major.
We both sang the chorus to a song that came on the radio, both off-key.
He glanced at me after that and smiled.
I didn’t sleep again that night.
Months passed like scenes from a movie.
He started visiting more frequently.
I started wearing perfume.
I stopped dating other boys, not because I wasn’t asked, but because no one measured up to the standard I had already set.
Him.
Everything I did was for proximity.
Every outfit, every conversation with his mom, every moment I spent at that house — it was all angled.
Everything was the long game.
Everything was about him.
Getting to him. Becoming something to him.