When my friends and I finish breakfast, Faith—who’s a medical intern—has to rush to the hospital because of an emergency. Meanwhile, Charlie and Hansel decide to watch a documentary about a serial killer on a streaming service. I’d usually join them, since I find it fascinating to understand what drives a person to become a murderer. However, instead, I excuse myself and head to my bedroom to try to write the stupid book—an impossible task I’m about to give up on so I can tell my agent to go to hell.

That’s how much I hate love and everything related to it, thanks to Andrew and the other two idiots who proved that the whole damn thing isn’t for me.

* * *

I first met Andrew Keegan when we were both twelve, and I spent the next seven years dreaming about him—although I did meet another boy when I was sixteen, who happened to become my first-ever boyfriend.

What happened to Andrew, you may ask. Well, I was completely invisible to him from the ages of twelve to fifteen, even though he knew I liked him. Charlie told everyone about my feelings for him, which made me the main topic of gossip for months and the target of some pretty distasteful shenanigans. Basically, the entire school knew about my crush on Andrew, and I was a walking joke back then.

I lost count of how many times I watched Andrew from afar while he hung out with his friends. No, I wasn’t a crazy stalker, but over time, I did end up knowing everything about him—his birthday, where he lived, who his parents and sister were, his hobbies, and his social media profiles.

By the time we were fifteen, our mutual friends were hosting parties almost every weekend, giving me endless opportunities to swoon over Andrew and his boyish charm. I had never talked to him—not even once—because I was too shy and innocent. My main hobby was writing poems in my diary and daydreaming about my happy ending with my first and only true love.

Pfft. Silly me. That’s what I got for watching romantic movies where everything magically worked out, and the couples lived happily ever after. What a load of crap.

Since it was just my father and me—my mother passed away when I was eight, and I don’t have siblings—I spent most of my time taking care of the house and believing in fairytales, even though I had never been kissed or flirted with by anyone.

Well, I’m happy to report that I did get my first kiss at one of my friends’ parties when I was fifteen. And guess with whom? None other than Andrew Keegan—my Prince Charming, the boy of my dreams, and the owner of my heart at the time.

One of our mutual friends talked to him about me and suggested he give me a chance because I was supposedly cool and all. Meanwhile, I was watching Faith and Hansel dancing in the middle of the living room with a bunch of other students. I was leaning against the wall when Andrew approached me. He didn’t say a word before leaning in and kissing me, catching me completely off guard.

To say my legs turned to jelly and my heart started pounding against my ribcage would be an understatement. I, Emily Sky, was having my first kiss with Andrew Keegan—the handsome boy with captivating brown eyes who had been the main inspiration for my poems for the past three years.

There are three things I remember thinking in that moment. One—kissing was easier than I had imagined. Two—Andrew’s breath tasted faintly of cinnamon. And three—he had braces, which, by the way, I had never noticed before.

I vaguely recall my friends cheering when we finally pulled apart, which made me blush furiously and wish I could disappear on the spot. Andrew, on the other hand, looked completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed comfortable as he wrapped an arm around my waist and brushed my hair away from my face, smiling softly at me.

It was a Saturday night. It was raining outside, the air was cold and damp, and most of the students were acting far too carefree for a group of teenagers. As for me, I wasn’t under the influence of anything; I was just high on love…

Ugh. I can’t believe I just thought that. How cheesy am I? Honestly, that sounds like the perfect opening for my stupid book, which I’m seriously considering calling Love and Shit.

“Love is cheesy. Love is beautiful. Love is poetry. At least, that’s how I felt when I met you.”

I type the words on my laptop, letting myself drift down memory lane.

Andrew and I spent the rest of the night together kissing, talking, and sharing our favorite songs.

Needless to say, by the time I got home from the party, I was already planning our wedding. I was completely convinced that Andrew and I were the real deal and that we would spend the rest of our lives together. I even told my dad about my first kiss. He laughed, then launched into a lecture about relationships, boundaries, and using protection for… that.

However, Andrew didn’t kiss me again after that night. We chatted online from time to time, but he never asked me out or showed any interest in being more than just a friend. As a fifteen-year-old hopeless romantic, I failed to see his indifference as a bad sign and allowed myself to fall for him even harder than before.

Faith, Charlie, and Hansel always had my back, encouraging me to keep fighting for the boy I loved because we were obviously meant to be together, differences be damned. Andrew smoked, whereas I didn’t. He hung out almost exclusively with the rich and popular crowd, whereas I didn’t, even though I somehow still knew those people. My dream boy was intelligent, charming, funny, and drop-dead gorgeous, whereas I was a cockroach.

Don’t ask me why I thought we were soulmates, because honestly, I have no idea.

A couple of months after our kiss, I went to another party with my friends, and Andrew was there, looking annoyingly perfect. He was surrounded by girls eager to get his attention, but I wasn’t bothered, as I was more than used to that sight by then. 

Later that night, I wandered around the house alone because my friends had vanished. Truthfully, I was looking for the love of my life, hoping we could talk… and maybe even kiss again. However, that was when my entire world collapsed, and my heart turned to ashes in less than a second.

I remember it vividly—catching sight of Andrew as he kissed Charlotte in the backyard, right next to the heated pool. It was ten at night, and most of the students were busy dancing or playing stupid party games, completely unaware. 

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. But it was real—one of my best friends was kissing the boy I was in love with.

What felt like an eternity later, I ran. I fled down the street, sobbing harder than I ever had before. That night was unbearable and easily the worst one of my life, although, in hindsight, the years that followed weren’t much better.

Two days later, Charlie confessed that she was officially dating Andrew and that he was the one who had asked her out, even though he knew she was one of my best friends and that I still had feelings for him. She kissed him because she wasn’t immune to his charm, just like every other girl at school.

I don’t remember much of that conversation because I’ve blocked most of it out. But I do remember Charlie asking me if I was okay with her relationship with Andrew, and I responded that I was, even though I wasn’t.

I mean, how could I be okay with watching my friend date the boy I loved?

Why did I lie to her, one might ask? Well, the truth is, I didn’t feel like I had the right to stand in the way of their relationship, mainly because Andrew didn’t feel about me the way I felt about him—that much was painfully clear. I was shattered, absolutely wrecked, but somehow their happiness mattered more to me than my own dignity.

As the months passed and I had to watch the happy couple together every day, I started to question why he chose her over me. The answers I came up with made me feel like shit and sent me spiraling into a mental free fall.

Of course he chose her. Charlie was stunning, with her long brown hair and hazel eyes. I, on the other hand, was just an awkward girl whose dark hair looked like a small animal had died on her head, with eyes that always seemed dull in comparison. Charlie was more popular, more confident, and more grown-up.

Honestly, compared to her, I never stood a chance.

They were the perfect match, and there was no place for me in their lives, even though I still saw them every day—not by choice, as Charlie wouldn’t let me step away or take the space I desperately needed.

Does one have any idea what it feels like to watch your best friend live the life you spent years dreaming about? She got to go to his house and meet his family. She got to hang out with him and his friends constantly. She got to spend the holidays with him. She got to kiss him whenever she wanted and to be the one by his side in every way that mattered.

Charlie dated Andrew for three years. Three long years during which I cried alone in my bedroom almost every night. And even after I met Dylan—who distracted me for a while and helped patch up my bruised heart—I never truly stopped hurting.

* * *

I abruptly close my laptop and toss it onto the bed, wiping my tears away in a rush. The memories are too much to handle, and I’m genuinely startled by how intensely they’re hurting me right now.

Why the hell am I crying? 

My heart tightens in my chest—a feeling I haven’t had in the past three years.

I don’t care about Andrew anymore. Hell, I haven’t seen him in five years, and I have zero desire to ever run into him again. So why do I suddenly feel like devouring a mountain of chocolate bars and getting drunk out of my mind?

“See? That’s exactly why I don’t want to write a freaking romance,” I yell like a lunatic. “To hell with this shit.” I pull on my old jeans, grab a casual jacket, and storm out of my bedroom, heading straight for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Hansel asks, getting up from the couch.

“Are you crying?” Charlie’s eyes widen when she realizes that I am, in fact, crying.

“Mily, where are you going?” Hansel insists.

“Out,” I snap, stepping into the hallway and slamming the door behind me.

Thankfully, the elevator is already on my floor when I press the button, and I slip inside before Hansel can follow me.

“Grrr, I hate love,” I hiss as the doors slide shut. “Love is shit. Love is crap. Love is hell.”

“Miss, are you feeling all right?” a male voice asks behind me.

Only then do I realize I’m not alone. I glance over, but my vision is blurry from tears, so I quickly turn back to face the doors.

“Emily, is that you?” he breathes out.

Slowly, I turn around, my jaw practically hitting the floor as the tall figure in front of me comes into focus.

“Andrew Keegan,” I whisper, a lump forming in my throat.

* * *