The world stops spinning.
My grip tightens around my pencil so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in two.
Silver has her hand around Aiden’s bicep. She’s chatting so happily as if they are in some cliche teen drama. He offers her his dazzling smile that he flashed me forty-eight hours ago.
Something inside me breaks.
I can hear the sound, loud and final.
I can feel the remnants shattering. Piece by piece, they gather at the dark corners of my chest.
Aiden’s silver eyes meet mine, gleaming with mock condescension.
I can almost imagine what he would’ve told me if he spoke.
I took your virginity and now I’m back where I belong.
Silver has a smug expression. I try not to look at her, the shiny blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, or the uniform pressed to perfection.
A king needs a queen, peasant.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them see the effects they have on me.
I refuse to let him see me cry again. I was stupid enough to show weakness before. Not anymore.
For once, Ronan is speechless. He keeps staring between Aiden and Silver then me as if he’s in some freak show.
Cole glares at Silver then at Aiden before throwing me a sympathetic look.
“You’re okay?” Kim whispers from behind me.
I smile and for some reason, I think it comes out convincing. “Can I borrow your notebook?”
Kim appears confused for a second.
I plead with her using my eyes.
Come on, help me out, Kim.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” She fishes into her bag and hands me her notebook.
I open it in front of me and compare our notes from the last class. My hand is still tight around the pencil and my shoulders are crowding with tension, but I manage to keep my expression as cool as possible.
I’m not going to cry.
The bitch queen stops beside my desk. Since I don’t raise my head, my view is constricted to her hand clutching Aiden’s arm. Her nails are French-manicured and she smells of Chanel. She always smells and looks classy, and although I never felt an inferiority complex before, it hits me like a hurricane now.
My eyes drop to Aiden’s Nike shoes. The pressed trousers and a hint of his clean scent. It brings memories of how he held me against his chest.
It was all a game.
A stupid, little game.
“Aww, are you crying, Frozen?” Silver taunts.
Of course, she wouldn’t leave me in peace.
Although I know I shouldn’t stoop down to Silver’s level and indulge her, I won’t let her walk all over me.
I wipe under my eyes with my middle finger then flash it to her with a smile. “Oops, my tears froze.”
Ronan snorts and Cole’s lips curve into what resembles a smile.
Silver’s cheeks tint in red as she leans closer as if to intimidate me. “Remember what I told you the last time, peasant?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Your words aren’t important enough for me to remember.”
“Hashtag burn,” Ronan coughs.
Kim snorts.
“You little — ” Silver opens her mouth to say more, but Mrs Stone walks into class.
“You’re nothing,” she hisses at my ear. “Know your place.”
Aiden guides her away without a look in my direction.
Not a word.
Usually, he’d sit on my desk and try to charm me with his golden boy grins. He’d say, “Morning, sweetheart. Did you dream of me last night?”
He’d poke and probe me until the teacher comes into class. He’d talk dirty in my ear and watch me with amusement as I squirm and fight not to blush.
At first, it was an infuriating routine, but then I’ve gotten used to it. Hell, I might have looked forward to it, wondering what he’d say.
Why did he do all that if he planned to take it away? Is this some sort of punishment? Another one of his mindfucks?
I try to focus during class, especially since we have an upcoming test, but I can’t.
My attention keeps drifting back to Aiden and Silver. They’re sitting next to each other at the back, downright flirting. He flashes her his golden boy smiles and she slips him notes every now and then.
I wonder what she’s telling him.
Find me after school.
Fuck me after school.
Let’s make fun of Elsa.
Damn them both to the darkest pit of hell.
I’m not going to cry.
I focus back on Mrs Stone’s monologue about the importance of literature. I’m fuming and my feet keep bouncing underneath the table.
Honestly? I only have myself to blame. I’m the stupid fly who fell into his well-crafted web. I’m the moth who knew it’d burn but went to the fire anyway.
In a thesis done by a Norwegian doctor I don’t remember his name, he highlighted the male species behaviour about a pursuit. He mentioned that men lose a considerable amount of their drive once they score the sex part of the deal. The general hypothesis is that subconsciously, men still have the caveman nature.
They live for the chase and once they have what they want, they just lose interest.
I hated that thesis when I first came across it. It was the epitome of sexism and general hypothesis. But then, is it really wrong? It’s proven time and again that the sense of safety can make men lazy in a relationship. That’s why some of them cheat. They’re always seeking that sense of thrill. The taboo of it.
When we learnt that the neighbour is divorcing her husband because of adultery, Aunt Blair said that most cheaters who later become in an official relationship don’t last long. The strong desire they had was only because they were in a forbidden relationship.
It’s all about the chase.
There’s no denying that the chase turned Aiden on. My struggle gave him a challenge he needed to crack. A game he had to win.
He did everything to make me bend to his will and once he had me, his flame turned to ashes.
He got me out of his system and now he’s done.
I’m not going to cry.
As soon as the bell rings, I stuff my things into my backpack and hurry to the washroom, ignoring Silver’s shrill laughter.
I need to wash my hands.
No one talks to me or shoots bullying remarks in my direction. Seems that whatever brief thing I had with Aiden will keep the school off my back.
Yet, I don’t feel happy.
I don’t feel… anything.
For two years, I always had Aiden’s attention. In some twisted way or another. But now it’s like I don’t even exist.
I’m not going to cry.
Something invisible crawls on my hands, and they feel so dirty inside and out.
I barge into the washroom and thrust my hand under the faucet. I scrub them over and over. Between my fingers. Underneath my nails. I rub my palms, the back of my hand and even my wrists. I don’t stop until my skin is red and stinging.
I stand in the washroom alone, the sound of water fills the empty silence.
As I stare at my red hands, the first tear falls on the side of my palm.
The second follows.
Then the third.
I sniffle, trying to hold back the tears as I did since Saturday.
Only this time, I can’t fight the tide.
So I let it loose.
I promise myself that this is the last time I cry for Aiden King.
