I spend two hours getting ready. Two hours of standing in front of my mirror, turning sideways, checking the curve of my ass in these jeans. The ones that make every guy at school forget how to form sentences. I pair it with a cropped top that leaves nothing to the imagination, my nipples hard against the thin fabric before I've even left my room. Gold hoops swinging. Hair falling in waves down my back. I look like every wet dream this school has ever had.

And I'm doing it all for a boy who won't even look at me.

The party is at Marcus Chen's house. His parents are never home. The bass hits me before I'm through the front door, vibrating through the floorboards and up through my heels. The air is thick with sweat and cologne and the metallic tang of spilled beer. Bodies press together in the living room. Someone hands me a red cup the second I walk in. I take it, but I don't drink.

My eyes find the corners first. The kitchen. The hallway. The backyard through the sliding glass door.

He's not here yet.

I tell myself I'm not relieved. I'm not anxious. I'm just... waiting. Like I always am.

"Bella!" Jasmine appears from the crowd, already three drinks in, glitter smeared across her cheekbones. "You look insane. Like, actually insane. Who are you trying to kill tonight?"

I laugh. It sounds convincing. "No one."

"Liar." She grins, tugging my arm. "Come on, there's a beer pong tournament starting."

I let her pull me through the crowd. Guys turn. They always turn. I feel their eyes on my chest, my hips, the way these jeans hold me. I've gotten so used to the weight of stares that I barely notice them anymore, except when I'm searching for one pair of light blue eyes that refuses to land on me.

The tournament is loud. Stupid. I hold a cup and pretend to care. Marcus's living room has this worn brown couch that smells like spilled liquor and the stain of a thousand parties. I sink into it at some point, legs crossed, watching bodies move around me.

"Hey."

A guy sits next to me. Senior. Football jersey. I've seen him at practice. "Hey," I say back, keeping my voice neutral.

"You look bored."

"I'm not."

"Liar." He smiles, leaning in. "I'm Derek."

"I know who you are."

"Then you know I'm not the kind of guy who lets a girl like you sit alone at a party."

I almost laugh. A girl like me. He has no idea what that means. "I'm fine, Derek. Really."

"You sure?" His hand lands on my knee. Casual. Like he's entitled to it. "I could get you another drink."

I look at his hand. He's not bad looking. He's nice. Normal. He wants me, and he's not hiding it, and that should feel like a relief. But his hand on my knee just feels heavy. Wrong.

"I'm good," I say, and I shift my leg away.

He gets the message. Holds his hands up. "Your loss."

He's right. It is my loss. Any other version of me would have let him buy me a drink, let him take me home, let him make me feel wanted for one night. But I can't. Not when I'm still waiting.

The front door opens.

I know it's him before I see him. The way the noise shifts. The way my chest tightens. I look up, and there he is.

River.

Black hoodie, hood up even though it's warm inside. Hands shoved in his pockets. He moves through the crowd like he's trying not to touch anyone, shoulders tight, jaw set. He doesn't look at anyone. He doesn't smile.

He looks up.

Our eyes meet for half a second. A heartbeat. I feel it in my stomach, that electric shock that never fades no matter how many times he rejects me. His eyes are so light blue they look almost gray in this light. Cold.

He looks away first.

Of course he does.

He turns toward the kitchen, and I watch the back of his hoodie disappear into the crowd. My chest aches. It's the same ache I've been carrying for months now, a bruise that never gets a chance to heal because I keep pressing on it, over and over, hoping this time it won't hurt.

It always hurts.

"You're doing it again."

Jasmine slides onto the couch next to me, her voice softer now. Sober enough to notice.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you stare at him like he's the last glass of water in a desert."

I look down at my cup. "I don't stare."

"You've been staring since he walked in."

I don't answer. There's nothing to say. She knows. Everyone knows. Watching the most popular girl in school chase a boy who won't even give her the time of day is probably everyone's favorite sport.

"Bella." Jasmine's hand on my arm. "He's not worth it. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because I can't help it." I set my cup down, the beer untouched. "You think I don't know how pathetic this is? You think I don't see myself? I'm the girl who has every guy in this school wrapped around her finger, and I'm sitting here pining over the only one who doesn't want me. I know exactly how it looks."

Jasmine's quiet for a second. "Then stop."

"I can't." My voice cracks. Just a little. "I've tried."

She squeezes my arm. "I know."

A group of guys approaches. More of them. Derek again with a few friends. They circle the couch like I'm prey, and I put my smile back on because that's what I do. I flirt without meaning to. I laugh at jokes that aren't funny. I let their compliments wash over me because it's easier than saying I don't want any of them.

"You're too good for this party," one of them says. "Come on, let me buy you a real drink."

"I'm good."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I keep meaning it."

He doesn't take the hint. None of them do. They stand there, waiting for me to change my mind, like my refusal is just part of some game. Like no isn't a complete sentence when it comes from a girl who looks like me.

I excuse myself. Slip through the crowd toward the kitchen. I tell myself I'm not going to find him. I'm just getting water. I'm just moving. That's all.

He's leaning against the counter, beer in hand, talking to Marcus. I stop in the doorway. He hasn't seen me yet. His face is relaxed in a way I almost never get to see. Unguarded. He's almost smiling at something Marcus says. His dimples show. I've seen them maybe three times in my life, and each time it felt like finding a crack in a wall I thought was solid.

Marcus grins at River, that easy smirk that means he's about to say something stupid. "Bro. You see her? Following you around like a lost puppy." He jerks his chin in my direction without looking. Doesn't need to. Everyone knows where I am. "She's got it bad for you, man."

I freeze in the doorway. My heart stops. My lungs stop. The beer in my hand suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.

River doesn't look at Marcus. He takes a slow sip of his beer, his jaw working. The silence stretches. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't do anything but stand here and wait for whatever comes next.

"I don't like clingy people." His voice is flat. Bored. Like he's talking about the weather. Like I'm not standing fifteen feet away. "Desperate's not a good look."

The words hit me like a physical slap. I feel them in my chest, in my stomach, in my throat. Clingy. Desperate. That's what I am. That's what he sees when he looks at me. Not a girl trying to get his attention. Not someone who might be worth knowing. Just desperate. Clingy. Pathetic.

Marcus laughs. "Damn. Cold, man."

River shrugs. "Just being honest."

I turn around. I don't remember deciding to move. My body just does it. I walk back through the crowd, past the couch where Jasmine is still sitting, past Derek who calls my name, past the front door, out into the cold night air.

The door swings shut behind me and the bass cuts to a muffled thump. The silence is ringing. I'm standing on the front porch, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and I don't know if I'm about to scream or cry or throw up.

I do none of them. I walk to my car. My heels click on the pavement. My keys shake in my hand. I get in, start the engine, and drive.

The streets blur past. Streetlights. Houses. The same roads I've driven a thousand times. Nothing looks familiar. Everything looks like it belongs to someone else's life.

I park in my driveway. The house is dark. My parents are asleep. I sit in the car for a long moment, the engine idling, the heat on my face, my hands still gripping the steering wheel like I might fall apart if I let go.

Closer. We got closer that time. Not physically. I mean — he wasn't wrong. He said exactly what I've been too afraid to admit.

I turn off the engine. The silence is worse.

Inside. Up the stairs. Past my little brother's room. Into the bathroom. I close the door and lock it. The fluorescent light hums. It's too bright. It shows everything.

I look at myself in the mirror.

Same face. Same hazel eyes. Same full lips I spent twenty minutes on before the party. Same gold hoops swinging against my jaw. Same transparent top, my nipples visible through the mesh, my breasts full and heavy. Same body that makes every guy in school turn his head.

But River doesn't turn his head. River looks through me.

I lean closer to the mirror, my palms flat on the counter. My mascara isn't even smudged. I didn't cry. I should be crying. Why aren't I crying?

Because this isn't new. This is just the first time he said it out loud where I could hear.

I stare at my reflection. The confident smile I wear like armor. The eyes that know how to flirt without trying. The body that I've always loved, always been proud of, always thought made me powerful.

Does he think I'm desperate? Does he think I'm pathetic?

The word clingy echoes in my skull. I hate it. I hate how accurate it feels. I hate that I can't argue with it. I've been following him around for months. Showing up where he is. Finding excuses to be near him. Watching him from across rooms. Hoping he'll look at me. Hoping he'll see me.

And he does see me. He sees exactly what I am. A girl who can't take a hint. A girl who doesn't know when to stop.

I press my fingers to my temples. My head is pounding. My chest feels like someone reached inside and squeezed.

For the first time, I let myself wonder: is it obvious?

Not just to him. To everyone. Jasmine knows. Marcus knows. The guys who approach me at parties — do they know I'm just killing time until River notices me? Do they laugh about it when I walk away?

The thought makes my stomach turn.

I look at my reflection again. The girl staring back at me looks different than she did this morning. She looks smaller. She looks like someone who just found out the whole world has been watching her fail.

"I don't like clingy people."

I say it out loud. My voice sounds hollow in the tiled room. I say it again, softer. "I don't like clingy people."

That's what I am to him. A noun. A category. A type of person he doesn't want near him.

I think about all the times I walked past his locker. All the times I found a reason to be where he was. All the times I wore my most revealing outfits hoping he'd finally look at me the way other guys do.

Did he notice? Did he see right through me every single time?

Of course he did. He's not stupid. He knew exactly what I was doing. He just didn't care enough to acknowledge it until someone made him say it out loud.

I blink at my reflection. My eyes are dry. That's the worst part. I'm not even crying. I'm just standing here, hollow, staring at a girl I don't recognize anymore.

The most popular girl in school. The one with the fattest ass and the biggest breasts. The one every guy wants. The one who has a line of boys waiting for her attention.

Except the one she wants.

The one she can't stop wanting. The one who thinks she's clingy and desperate and pathetic. The one who said it out loud tonight, not knowing she was listening.

I wonder if it would hurt less if he'd said it to my face.

Part of me thinks yes. At least then he'd be looking at me. At least then I'd exist to him for more than a second. But the rest of me knows the truth. It would hurt the same. It would hurt worse. Because hearing him say those words while looking into my eyes would mean I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't tell myself he just needs more time. Couldn't keep believing the lie I've been feeding myself since the first day I saw him.

I don't know how long I stand there. Minutes. Hours. Time stops meaning anything when you're staring at the wreckage of your own hope.

I finally turn away from the mirror. My room is dark. I don't turn on the light. I lie on my bed, still in my party clothes, staring at the ceiling.

The worst part isn't what he said.

The worst part is knowing I'll might do it all again tomorrow.

I'll find a reason to walk past his locker. I'll wear something that makes me feel beautiful. I'll catch his eye across the hallway, and for half a second, I'll feel that spark, that electric hope that maybe today will be different.

And he'll look away. And I'll keep chasing. Because stopping means admitting I've been wasting my time. Stopping means accepting that he doesn't want me and never will. Stopping means letting go of the only thing that's made me feel alive in months.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.

"I don't like clingy people."

The words follow me into the dark. They follow me into the silence. They follow me into the space behind my eyelids where sleep won't come.

I don't cry. I don't scream. I just lie there, hollow and aching, knowing tomorrow I'll put my armor back on and do it all again.

Because that's what I am now. A girl who survives on scraps. A girl who chases a boy who doesn't want her. A girl who heard exactly what he thinks of her and still can't find the strength to stop.

The worst part is knowing I probably never will.