Chapter 1: My Boss, My Heartbreak

Years after graduation, I ran into my old college roommate—the girl who shot me down when I finally told her how I felt.

It was one of those moments that made my stomach drop, like stepping off a curb you didn’t see coming. There she was—Savannah Langley—standing tall and poised in a tailored navy suit that screamed C-suite. Her hair was swept back like she’d just stepped out of a Forbes cover shoot. I almost spilled my coffee right then and there. Classic me. The universe must have been bored and decided to mess with me for fun.

Now, she’s my new boss. Cool, aloof, and parachuted in from the top floor. I’m still her subordinate, still hopelessly hung up on her. And here we are, both acting like we’ve never met. Yeah, right.

The whole office was buzzing about the mysterious new director, and I played along, pretending I’d never seen her before. But every time I caught a glimpse of her in the hallway, my heart did a backflip. I kept my head down, fingers flying across my keyboard, trying to act like she was just another name on the org chart. Sure, Autumn. That’s believable.

But then, late one night while working overtime, she overheard my mom calling to nag me about some church-arranged blind date. Next thing I know, Savannah’s pinning me against my desk, that ice-queen act slipping for the first time. “Why not consider me instead?”

I swear, my brain just fried on the spot. She was so close I could see the gold flecks in her eyes, and her voice had this tiny tremor. That was the first crack in her armor, and I couldn’t breathe. For a second, I forgot how to exist.

Wait—wasn’t she straight?

Honestly, my first real heartbreak started back in college, when I fell for Savannah Langley.

Freshman year at Indiana University—the campus buzzing with that restless September energy. We were in the same class, shared a dorm, and naturally became each other’s go-to for meals and lectures. She was beautiful and sharp—maybe a little too sharp sometimes—but always a bit distant. I was outgoing and enthusiastic, probably too much so.

Our dorm room was a mess of textbooks, half-empty coffee mugs, and sticky notes all over the mini fridge. Savannah glided through the chaos, always perfectly put together. Meanwhile, I was tripping over my own shoes. Still, we clicked: late-night study sessions, inside jokes, 2 a.m. pancake runs at the all-night diner.

Before I realized I liked her, I thought I was straight as an arrow. But when I caught myself catching feelings for her, I suddenly got it—maybe I wasn’t as straight as I thought. Maybe I was more like one of those trees that looks upright until you notice it’s leaning a little.

It hit me one rainy November night, sharing an umbrella when she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My cheeks flamed, and suddenly every rom-com made sense. I started noticing the way her laughter made my chest ache, or how a casual touch could make my whole day.

It took me a while to accept myself, and then three years to finally tell her how I felt. In those three years, my secret crush turned into something everyone could see. But it wasn’t until the night I confessed that I realized just how wrong I’d been.

Savannah was straight.

That night, it was just us in the dorm. The main light was off, only our desk lamps glowed. Maybe I’d been anxious too long, or maybe the dim lighting gave me courage. I sat in my chair, hands shaking, voice trembling, stumbling through my confession. My palms were sweaty and my heart was in my throat.

The rain tapped against the window, the air thick with nerves. I stared at my chipped nail polish, words tumbling out in a rush. “Savannah, I—I think I’m in love with you.”

She let me down easy, but her answer was final: “Sorry, I’m straight.”

She looked at me with this sad understanding, like she’d known all along. Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, but there was no hope in it. That stung more than I thought it would.

Even with everything out in the open, we managed a short, sweet stretch of friendship. She didn’t want to lose me, and I couldn’t let go. But feelings are feelings—I couldn’t just settle for ‘friends.’

We tried to keep things light, but tension simmered under every conversation. I’d catch myself staring too long, or pulling away when our hands brushed. She’d look at me with that distant concern, and I’d try to laugh it off. But it was like trying to hold water in my hands—it always slipped through.

So came the cycles: moodiness, tug-of-war, arguments, silent treatments. And then, finally, the end. God, it hurt. I remember the way the air would go thick with silence, or how my stomach would twist every time we fought over nothing.

We’d fight over the dumbest things—who left the milk out, who forgot to take out the trash. Sometimes I’d go days without talking to her, then cave and send a meme. She’d reply with a smiley face, but the warmth was gone. By senior year, we barely spoke.

After graduation, she went abroad. I stayed here. We lost touch for good. Two people who’d been so close ended up on bad terms, not even taking a single photo together at graduation. It ate at me. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, wishing things had ended differently.

I remember standing in my cap and gown, watching her from across the quad. She was surrounded by her family, laughing, while I clutched my phone, wishing for one last chance. But we walked away without a word, no snapshot to prove we’d ever been friends.