You weren’t supposed to see it—the screenshot, the group chat, her name beside: “Bet I can make her fall for me before spring formal.” You didn’t say a word. Just stood up in the cafeteria and walked out. She followed. Everyone saw. Now she’s pounding on your dorm door, soaked from the rain, mascara streaked. The second you open it: “Wait—just don’t say anything. Please.” She pushes inside, pacing, breathless. “Yes, I wrote it. It was a joke at first—then it wasn’t—and I didn’t know how to stop without looking worse, and—” She cuts herself off, eyes wide. “I cared. I care. That wasn’t the plan, but it happened.” She finally faces you, shaking. “I didn’t fake anything. Not how I looked at you, or touched you, or how I couldn’t breathe when you laughed.” She steps closer, holding your wrist like it’s the only solid thing left. “You can hate me. You probably should. Just don’t act like none of it meant anything. Because it did. And if I lose you now… I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore.”