The end of my junior year came in a flash, a year passing before I could process it, and as I sat with Harlow watching the seniors graduate, I felt sadness in my heart as many of my friends were getting ready to leave for college.

Caleb had never changed in this year, still messing with me daily, reminding me he didn’t like me, and it melted my heart as I started to peek through the gaps of that phrase. He did like me, the way I liked him, but there was a mountain between us that was fully insurmountable.

“Caleb Weston Steele,” Headmaster Hanson called into the microphone, and Caleb crossed the stage, accepting his diploma and fixing the cords he was wearing, one for football and the other for excellence in technology.

I cheered loudly, watching as he went back to his seat and the graduation continued, carrying on until the sun nearly set. Harlow and I rushed to the field, hugging all of our good friends for the last time, and the seniors proceeded into the school, getting to empty their lockers and pass the number down to a junior. It was a tradition for us, and Harlow was given the old locker of his friend Allan. I was more than likely going to get Heather’s as it was the closest to the gym, until I checked the locker I shared with Harlow to ensure I had cleaned it out completely and found a note and a locker number sitting in there in the handwriting of whoever had been writing to me for two years now.

The note was a beautiful poem that nearly made me cry, and I wiped my eyes on the sleeves of my ivory sweater, reading it a few times.

I hate you.
I hate the way you look at me like you know something.
Like you’re waiting for me to say it so you can laugh.

I don’t think about your hands.
Or your voice.
Or the way you smiled that day I dropped my pen, and you handed it back like it meant something.
(It didn’t. It didn’t.)

You’re not even that funny.
Or smart.
Or—

God.
Why do I know the sound of your footsteps?

This isn’t love.
It can’t be.
I’d know.
I’m not—
I’m not that.

You’re annoying.
Loud.
Too confident.
Too much.

Too much like someone I’d let ruin me if you asked.

(You won’t. You can’t. You don’t feel this.)

Sometimes I catch you looking at me, and I wish I could stop breathing for a second just to hear what you’re thinking.

Then I remember:
You’re them.
And I’m me.
And this only ends one way.

I hate you.
But if you turned around right now and told me you felt it too— God help me— I’d believe you.

I held the poem close to my chest before gently folding it and tucking it safely into the pocket of my burnt orange corduroy skirt. I quietly passed people in the hallway as I went to find the locker I had been gifted. It was across from Heather’s near the gym, and I froze when I realized who it originally belonged to.

“Caleb,” I whispered, using the combination on the back to try and open the lock. It popped open, and sitting on the shelf was another letter, this one crumpled but still folded with my name on the top of it.

I keep you at a distance because I know the cost of closeness.

Because a glance held too long is a risk, a smile returned could mean the end of everything I’ve managed to hide.

You ask why I act cold. Why do I flinch when we almost touch?

It’s because I want to. I want to so badly it terrifies me.

Because if I let myself want you out loud, they’d see.
You’d see.

And maybe you’d look back at me with something crueler
than hate—confusion.
Pity.
Disgust.

So I stay silent.
Call it friendship.
Call it rivalry.
Call it nothing.

But never what it is.

Because I don’t know if I’d survive the answer.

I raced out of the school, both notes tucked into my pockets, ignoring Harlow’s shouts after me. Making my way to the field, I found Caleb hiding in the shadow of a pillar, clearly past his limit of talking to people.

“You!” I shouted, making him jump, “Come here.”

“You aren’t the boss of me,” he snorted, undoing his tie and letting it hang on his chest, the dark blue perfect with the light blue of his shirt, “I don’t owe you anything.”

“You owe me answers!” Stomping over, I grabbed the two ends of his tie with my right hand and yanked him down, startling Caleb as he always underestimated my strength, “What is the meaning of the notes? Why have you been slipping them into my locker for two years? This is a cruel joke, Caleb.”

“You… think it’s a joke?” He whispered, staring into my eyes, and I immediately nodded, gasping when he grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the bathroom building, the sounds of everyone falling away as he pushed me against a wall, one hand resting next to my head, the other fishing in his pocket before he pulled out another note and gave it to me, “Here.”

I slowly opened it, reading quietly to myself as Caleb stared at me, pressing ever closer the further I read.

I hope you never read this, and if you do, I hope you don’t know it’s you.

I don’t like you.
You’re loud.
You talk like you own the sky.
You walk like gravity bends around you just to keep you upright.

I hate the way you laugh—how it gets stuck in my head long after you’ve left the room.
I hate that I notice when you’re not there.
I hate that you’re always there, even when you’re not.

You make me feel like I’m two people at once—the one who glares at you and the one who aches to stand closer.

I don’t like you.
I just memorize everything you do.
Your stupid hand gestures.
The scar near your lip.
The way your voice softens when you talk to someone you actually care about.

I don’t care.
I swear I don’t.
But if I did—if I did, maybe I’d wonder what you’d do if you found this.

If you read it and saw yourself between the lines, in the spaces where I say hate but mean something else.

Would you laugh?
Would you get angry?
Would you look at me the way I’ve been trying not to look at you?

This isn’t a love letter.
This is me trying to be brave without breaking.

Don’t ask who wrote it.
Just… keep it.
Or throw it away.
Just know someone out there thinks about you a little too much and hopes you never find out—but also, maybe, kind of hopes you do.

“Caleb,” I whispered, meeting his gaze.

“I was never going to give you that one. You’re not supposed to have it,” he whispered back.

“But why are you writing these to me? You don’t like me.”

“I like you.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve spent all of school teasing me, telling me you don’t like me or want to be my friend. We’re enemies.”

“Because I can’t… I can’t have these feelings for you, Aster,” he touched my cheek softly, and I felt a tear roll down my face, “Because admitting to myself that I’m gay and in love with you is the worst possible thing I could do to either of us.”

“Caleb…”

“It’s okay,” he smiled, running his thumb along my bottom lip, “It’s better if we finish this out by hating each other, right? Remember what I always tell you,” he leaned down and softly kissed my cheek, laughing when I gripped his arms tightly, “I don’t like you.”

“I can’t…”

“Say it,” he sniffled, and I realized he was trying to hold back tears, “Please… just say it. It’s our catchphrase, Aster.”

“I can’t, Caleb. Not anymore.”

“I don’t like you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Aster…”

“I like you,” I whispered in his ear before softly kissing his cheek in return, my hand resting on the other one, “I like you very much, Caleb Steele.”

“Don’t… Please. We’ll never see each other again after today, okay? You’ll forget me, meet a guy who can love you and give you every bit of his heart. A guy not afraid to be true to himself. It’s not me, Aster. I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay breaking my heart?”

“It’s the last thing I ever wanted to do,” he shook his head and leaned back, staring into my eyes, “You found the last notes too soon.”

“Why can’t you pick me? I want you.”

“No,” he fought back more tears, “No, I don’t want you to do that. I’m leaving for boot camp tomorrow. I joined the Army. I won’t be back in Georgia for a long time, and I hope you’re loved by someone amazing by then.”

“But…”

“Stop,” he covered my mouth, and I grabbed his wrist, gripping tightly, “No more. I don’t like you. I don’t…”

“Because that always meant I love you. Didn’t it?” I murmured, and Caleb nodded slowly, “Then I don’t like you either.”

“I know,” he flashed me his crooked smile before wrapping a hand in my hair and pressing a long kiss to my forehead, “And now this is goodbye.”

“Goodbye. I’ll miss your notes.”

“I’ll miss your stupid face, the stupid way you walk around carrying my heart with you, and the stupid way you made me fall in love with you.”