Chapter 3: Rumors, Fights, and Realizations

"Thought you weren’t going home for lunch anymore?" Tyler sneered one break, squeezing up to our desk.

He loomed over us, voice syrupy with fake innocence. His friends circled behind him, ready for trouble.

"So what’s this, then?" He jabbed at the Starbucks cup on our desk, making a show of it like he’d uncovered a crime.

"Oh, you even got matching cups!" Tyler crowed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Phones came out, whispers zipped around, and a few girls leaned in to check the names on the cups. Someone snapped a blurry picture—probably already sent to a group chat.

"They really are couple’s cups," someone declared.

That was all it took. Laughter rolled through the room, and soon a chant started—drawn-out, teasing, impossible to ignore.

She buried her face, her ears blazing red, trying to vanish behind her binder. My fists clenched, heat rising up my neck.

The next thing I knew, my fist hit his shoulder, hard. Tyler shoved back, desks screeching across the floor, and suddenly we were both on the ground, tangled up and yelling while everyone else egged us on.

By the time the teacher burst in, I was scraped up and Tyler’s nose was bleeding. We were both hauled to the nurse’s office, the sting of antiseptic and embarrassment burning just as much as the bruises.

That evening, she took me to the nurse, helping dab the last scrape with a cotton ball.

"Why did you have to fight?" she asked, eyes glassy, and for a second I thought she might cry—but she didn’t.

For the first time, I saw her look genuinely disappointed in me, and it hurt worse than any scolding from a teacher.

I grumbled, "Tyler’s a jerk, spreading rumors about us."

"So you hit him because he said we were a couple?"

Her question just hung in the air, heavier than the scent of antiseptic. She didn’t sound mad, just tired.

At the time, I blurted, "We’re just friends—why should I let him mess that up?"

Years later, I’d replay that moment over and over—sometimes in the shower, sometimes whenever I saw a Percy Jackson book on a shelf. I’d wonder what I really meant, and if I could have said something truer.

Late summer bled into fall. She squatted by the flowerbed steps, cleaning my hand with a cotton swab. The campus speakers played music as students streamed by. The air was thick with the smell of cut grass and the distant echo of a referee’s whistle from the football field.

When I finished, I saw the sunset fade in her eyes for a moment before she smiled. "All done, the wounds are treated."

She stuck the last Band-Aid on my knuckle, nudged my shoulder, and for a second, everything felt okay again.

Maybe the most beautiful moments are like that—you never realize how precious they are until they’re long gone. Even the cracks in the sidewalk, the sound of cicadas, the sticky sweetness of late summer—they all come back, sharp as ever, when you least expect it.

Only then, in hindsight, did I realize that girl had always meant something different.

Looking back, I wish I could tell my younger self to pay attention, to hold on tighter—but that’s not how growing up works.