Chapter 1: Four Years of Obsession

Everyone in our small Ohio town knew I was obsessed with Jason Grant—except, maybe, Jason Grant himself.

Back in high school, I’d loiter outside his AP Chem class, memorize the Friday night basketball schedule, and fake a sprained ankle just to get a ride home in his battered Ford. In a place where everyone knew everyone, my crush was as public as the county fair.

He got sick of me. Completely, unmistakably sick of me.

He stopped glancing my way, even when I sat in the front row at every game or signed up for every fundraiser. If we passed in the hall, he’d roll his eyes or spin on his heel. Pretty soon, I was the punchline for every joke his friends cracked at lunch.

Under mounting pressure, my family decided to ship me out of the country.

It wasn’t just neighbors gossiping anymore—my dad’s colleagues would ask about Jason at the Fourth of July picnic, and my mom started crying over burnt pancakes. Their patience ran out. My ticket to London showed up in the mail, accompanied by a rushed hug and a promise that I’d be allowed home "when I was better."

I’ll never forget what I overheard one night: "Do whatever you have to do, just make sure she never bothers me again. Otherwise, don’t blame me for being ruthless."

His words felt like ice water down my spine. I pressed my palm to the banister, the wood digging into my skin, willing myself not to cry. His voice was colder than January wind.

Medications, therapy, even electroshock…

It all blurred together—cold blue hospital lights, nurses with crisp accents who called me ‘love’ and never pronounced the R’s, the taste of chalky pills, and a therapist who tapped her pen every time I went silent.

Those methods really worked.

Little by little, the ache dulled. I used to know the exact shade of his eyes—hazel with a gold ring—but now even that’s gone. I forgot the way he laughed when the Browns lost, or the silly bracelet he wore all senior year.

I forgot what it felt like to love him.

Even my memories of him faded, becoming vague and indistinct. Faces, places, whole stretches of high school vanished like fog on a summer morning. Sometimes, I wondered if I’d made the whole thing up.

Eventually, he relented and let me come home.

The email came from my dad, not Jason. Still, when the plane landed in Cleveland, a tiny part of me hoped I’d see him at baggage claim. He wasn’t there.

Once I got home, if I heard his voice downstairs, I’d tiptoe to the bathroom and run the faucet, just to drown out the sound.

Because my mom told me: that man with a face like a movie star is someone I can’t afford to cross.

She meant it, too—reminding me every time his name came up, as if I needed the warning.

When I saw him kissing my sister, I secretly took out my phone to snap a picture.

I barely realized what I was doing—the urge hit like a reflex, my thumb pressing the button before my brain caught up.

His eyes went sharp and cold.

He looked straight through me, and for a second I felt like a kid caught shoplifting, my heart pounding in my ears.

Terrified, I shrank into a corner, unable to even form a sentence.

"Sorry, I just think you two are a good match, really well-suited…"

My words tumbled out, barely louder than a whisper, but I forced a smile as if I meant it. My hands shook so badly, I could barely hold my phone.

I don’t know why,

But the man who always kept his emotions hidden—his eyes suddenly trembled violently.

For a heartbeat, his mask slipped, and I caught something like pain—or was it anger?—before he shut down again, stony as ever.