The bass hits me in the chest before I'm even through the door. Beer and sweat and cheap cologne, all of it familiar, all of it meaningless. I spent two hours getting ready—my best transparent top, the one that shows everything, my gold hoops catching the light, my hair falling in waves down my back. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to look at me like he couldn't look away.

He's in the kitchen. I spot him before he spots me—black hoodie, thumb ring glinting under the red lights, that jaw I've memorized from a thousand stolen glances. My heart does that stupid thing it always does, that lurch that feels like hope and dread mixed together. I push through the bodies, past the couples grinding, past the guys who turn to watch me pass. I feel their eyes on my curves, on the sheer fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination, and I don't care. There's only one pair of eyes I want on me tonight.

"River." My voice comes out steady. I've practiced this. Soft. Casual. Like it doesn't cost me everything just to say his name.

He looks up. His light blue eyes find mine for half a second. Then they slide away, back to nothing, back to the space above everyone's heads. He doesn't say hi. Doesn't nod. Just that look—the one that says you're not worth my time—and then he's gone, turning back to whatever conversation his teammates are having.

The bass is still thudding. The room is still hot. I'm still standing here with my heart in my throat and nothing to show for it.

I grab a red cup from the counter. Fill it with something I don't taste. Drink half of it in one swallow. My hand trembles as I set the cup down.

"Damn, Bella." Marcus from the football team appears at my elbow, his grin too wide, his eyes already on my chest. "You look—"

"Not interested." I don't look at him.

"Come on, baby—"

"I said no." My voice is harder now. The confidence I fake with everyone else slides into place like armor. I've worn it so long it almost fits. "Find someone else."

He laughs it off, hands up, backing away. But I feel him watching me as I move deeper into the kitchen, closer to where River is standing. The guys around him are loud, laughing about something I don't catch. River isn't laughing. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Then why did you come? I want to ask him. Why are you here if you hate it so much? Why are you here if you can't even look at me?

I don't ask. I never ask. I just stand nearby, close enough to pretend I'm part of his orbit, far enough to remember I'm not.

A sophomore I don't know approaches me. Blonde hair. Confident smile. "You're Bella, right? I've seen you at games. You're incredible—"

"Thanks." I cut him off. "Not tonight."

His face falls. He mutters something and disappears into the crowd. I don't watch him go. My eyes are already back on River, on the way his thumb traces the rim of his cup, the way his jaw tightens when someone claps him on the shoulder. Every small movement is a language I'm trying to learn. Every silence is a sentence I can't read.

Another guy. This one older, a senior, someone I recognize from the basketball team. "Bella. You're killing it tonight. That top—"

"No." I say it flat. Final.

He raises an eyebrow. "You don't even want to—"

"I said no."

He shrugs and walks away. I feel the weight of the room's attention shifting, the whispers starting. Bella's turning everyone down again. Who's she waiting for? You know who. The football player who won't give her the time of day. The whispers are loud enough to reach me, even over the music.

I pretend I don't hear them. I've gotten good at pretending.

The night stretches on. More guys approach. I turn them all down. Some are nice about it. Some aren't. One grabs my wrist, his fingers too tight, and I have to yank myself free with a sharp "Don't touch me" that makes him back off fast. Through it all, I feel River's presence like gravity—always there, always pulling, always just out of reach.

I'm leaning against the counter, halfway through my third cup of something I can't name, when I feel it. A shift in the air. A weight that wasn't there before.

I look up.

River is watching me.

Not glancing. Not looking past me. Watching. His eyes locked on mine across the crowded kitchen, through the bodies and the smoke and the haze of red light. My breath catches. My heart stops. For one long, suspended moment, the world falls away and it's just him and me and the space between us that feels like it's shrinking—

He looks away.

Just like that. The moment is gone, so fast I could have imagined it. He's staring at his cup again, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.

But I didn't imagine it. I know I didn't imagine it.

The hope that's been dying in my chest all night flickers back to life. One look. That's all it took. One stupid, brief, meaningless look—and I'm a fool all over again.

I finish my drink. Set the cup down. Watch him from across the room, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.

And then I see her.

A girl I don't recognize. Dark hair. Thin. She's at his side, her hand on his arm, her face tilted up toward his. She's laughing at something he said—and for a horrible second, I realize he said something. He talked to her. He let her touch him.

He nods. She smiles. He turns toward the door, and she follows, her hand still on his arm, her body close to his in a way I've never been allowed.

They walk out together.

The bass is still thudding. The room is still spinning. I'm still standing here, frozen, watching the door swing shut behind them.

Someone says my name. I don't hear it. Someone touches my shoulder. I pull away. My legs are moving, carrying me through the crowd, past the couples, past the bodies, past the heat and the noise and the lights that are suddenly too bright. I stumble through the front door. The cold air hits me like a slap.

I make it to my car. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely get the keys out of my purse. I drop them twice. When I finally get the door open and fall into the driver's seat, the tears come—hot and fast and ugly, the kind of crying I never let anyone see.

I press my palms against my eyes. Try to breathe. The sobs keep coming, shaking my shoulders, cracking open the chest I've been holding together all night.

I saw him look at me. I saw it. And for one stupid second, I thought—

I don't know what I thought. That's the problem. I don't know what I thought, because he's never given me anything to think. He's never given me anything at all. Just crumbs. Glances. Silences that I turn into sonnets in my head because I need them to mean something.

I hate myself for this. For needing him. For hoping. For crying in my car while he's probably kissing some other girl in some other room, not thinking about me at all.

The worst part is I'd do it again.

I'd wake up tomorrow and I'd pick out my clothes and I'd go to school and I'd find a reason to walk past his locker, and I'd let him ignore me, and I'd let it hurt, and I'd do it all over again. Because one look. One stupid, meaningless look—and I'd let myself hope all over again.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. The engine hums under me, warm and alive. The party bleeds light through the windows, laughter spilling out into the night. Inside, people are having the time of their lives. Outside, I'm falling apart in a parking spot that's too far from the door.

I don't start the car. Not yet. I sit there, letting the tears dry on my face, letting the ache hollow me out until there's nothing left but quiet.

And then I drive home.

My apartment is dark when I walk in. The kind of dark that settles into corners and stays there. I don't bother turning on the lights—I know this space by heart. The creak of the third floorboard. The way the bathroom door sticks if you don't lift it slightly. The path from the front door to my bedroom, carved by a thousand nights just like this one.

I kick off my heels. They land somewhere near the closet. I'll find them tomorrow. Or I won't. It doesn't matter.

My bed is waiting for me like an old friend—queen-sized, drowning in plush blankets that I bought specifically for nights like this. Nights when I need to disappear into something soft. I don't bother changing. I fall face-first into the pillows, letting the fabric swallow me, letting the darkness wrap around my bones.

For a long moment, I just lie there. Breathing. Existing. Trying not to think about the way he walked out that door with her hand on his arm.

It doesn't work.

I roll onto my back and grab my phone. The screen lights up my face, harsh and bright. My thumb moves on autopilot, opening Instagram before I've even decided what I'm looking for. But I know. I always know.

River's profile loads in under a second. @riverlopez_fb. A million followers. A million people who get to see parts of him I'll never have. His profile picture is from last season—helmet under his arm, sweat dripping down his forehead, the stadium lights catching the sharp line of his jaw. He looks untouchable in it. Untouchable and beautiful and so far out of my league it's almost funny.

Almost.

I scroll. His feed is exactly what you'd expect—football, football, more football. Huddles with his team. Victories captured mid-shout. A photo of his cleats on the fifty-yard line with the caption home. There's a shot of him at a diner at 2am with his boys, all of them laughing, all of them looking like they belong somewhere. Like they have a place in the world that's theirs.

And then there's the shirtless photos.

My thumb stops. My breath catches in my throat.

It's from last summer. He's at some lake, the water dark behind him, his torso bare and glistening. The muscles in his shoulders catch the light, defined and hard, the kind of body that comes from hours in the weight room and running drills until you collapse. His shorts hang low on his hips. His thumb hooks into the waistband like he doesn't even realize what he's doing to me.

I zoom in. I can't help it. I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertip, the dip of his sternum, the way his abs cast shadows in the late afternoon sun. He's not smiling in the photo. He's barely looking at the camera. Like the whole thing bored him. Like being this beautiful was an accident he couldn't be bothered to fix.

I save the photo to my favorites. I've done it before. I'll do it again.

I keep scrolling. A video of him scoring a touchdown, the crowd roaring, his teammates lifting him up. A candid of him stretching before practice, his jersey riding up, a sliver of skin visible above his waistband. A photo of him in his black hoodie—the one he wears to school—zipped halfway, a silver chain peeking out from underneath. His thumb rests on his lips in the photo, the silver ring catching the light.

I bite my own lip. Hard.

This is pathetic. I know it's pathetic. I'm lying in my bed at—I check the time—1:47am, scrolling through a boy's Instagram like a lovesick teenager. Which I am. I'm literally a teenager. But that doesn't make it feel any less humiliating.

I close his profile. Open mine instead.

My feed is different. More curated. More deliberate. Every photo of me is a statement, a weapon, a shield. I scroll through them with the same critical eye I always do, searching for the ones that capture me at my best.

There's one from last week. I'm in my room, natural light pouring through the window, wearing nothing but a G-string and a sheer top that leaves nothing to the imagination. My nipples are visible through the fabric—dark, hard, perfect. My arm is pressed across my chest, covering just enough to tease, to leave something to the imagination even though nothing is actually hidden. My hair falls over one shoulder. My lips are parted. I look like a fantasy.

I look like someone worth wanting.

The photo has twelve thousand likes. The comments are full of fire emojis and heart-eyes and boys leaving messages I don't bother to read. They're not who I'm posting for. They never are.

I scroll further. A mirror selfie in a micro skirt that barely covers my ass, my thighs on full display, a tank top that stops just below my breasts. My hands are covering my nipples again—a habit, a signature, a game I play where I show everything and nothing at the same time. My gold hoops catch the light. My hair falls in a straight black curtain down my back. I look confident. I look untouchable.

I don't feel like that right now.

I keep scrolling. A photo from a party last month. I'm standing between two of River's teammates, their arms around my waist, their eyes on my chest. I'm laughing at something one of them said, my head thrown back, my body on full display in a dress that barely covers anything. I look like the most popular girl in school. I look like I own every room I walk into.

And in the corner of the photo, blurred, almost invisible—River. Walking past. Not looking at me. Not even glancing in my direction.

I post these photos for him. Every single one. And he's never once liked a single post. Never once commented. Never once even looked.

I close my eyes. Let the phone rest on my chest. Feel the weight of it rising and falling with my breath.

And then, because I'm a glutton for punishment, I let myself imagine.

What it would be like if he wanted me.

Not just looked at me—wanted me. The way other boys do. The way they stare at my body like it's a prayer and they've been waiting their whole lives to say amen. What would it feel like if River looked at me like that?

I imagine him walking into a room. Seeing me across the crowd. His eyes locking onto mine the way they did for that one split second tonight—but this time, he doesn't look away. This time, he holds my gaze. This time, he walks toward me.

In my head, he pushes through the bodies like they don't exist. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—something clean and sharp and warm. His hands find my waist. His thumbs press into the curve of my hips. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The look in his eyes says everything I've been starving for.

In my head, he pulls me closer. His lips brush my ear. His voice is low, rough, broken in a way I've never heard it. "You." Just that. Just the word. But it's enough, because it means he sees me. It means I'm not invisible to him. It means I matter.

In my head, he kisses me.

I don't let myself imagine further than that. I can't. It hurts too much to go beyond the kiss, to imagine what his hands would feel like on my skin, what his body would feel like pressed against mine, what it would be like to be wanted by someone who acts like I don't exist.

But the kiss. The kiss I let myself have. Soft. Slow. His hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head back, taking what I've been offering for years. And in my head, I kiss him back like I mean it. Like I've been saving every kiss I never got to give him and I'm pouring them all into this one moment.

It's beautiful. It's devastating. It's everything I'll never have.

My eyes are still closed. My phone is still on my chest. The photo of me in the sheer top stares up at the ceiling, a thousand likes I don't care about, a caption I don't remember writing, a body that gets me everything except what I actually want.

I set the phone down. Turn on my side. Pull the blanket up to my chin.

I should be crying right now. I should be replaying the moment he walked out with that girl, the way her hand looked on his arm, the way he didn't even glance back. I should be letting the hurt swallow me whole, drowning in it the way I did in the car.

But instead, I let myself stay in the fantasy. Just a little longer. Just until I fall asleep.

I imagine his hand in mine. His laugh—low and rare, a sound I've only heard twice in two years. His eyes softening when they land on me. His voice saying my name like it means something. "Bella." Not Isabella. Not the full name my teachers use when I'm in trouble. Bella. Soft. Warm. His.

I imagine it so clearly that I can almost feel him next to me. The heat of his body. The weight of his arm across my waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing, slow and deep, matching mine.

It's not real. I know it's not real. But in the space between awake and asleep, it doesn't have to be.

My lips curve into a smile. Small. Fragile. Hopeful in a way I know I'll regret tomorrow.

But tomorrow isn't here yet.

And for now, in the dark of my room, wrapped in blankets and a fantasy that will never come true, I let myself be happy. I let myself believe, for just a few more minutes, that somewhere out there, River Lopez is thinking about me too.

My breathing slows. My grip on the blanket loosens. The fantasy blurs at the edges, softening, dissolving into something warm and weightless.

I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

The worst part is, I know I'd do it all again tomorrow.