Kissing the Soccer Hotshot

I used to bring him chocolates every morning. Handwritten letters. Smiles he never returned. Kristoff Ricafort didn’t just break my heart—he threw it in the trash. Literally. “Stop forcing things that aren’t there,” he said. So I did. I stopped showing up. Stopped hoping. Started choosing myself instead. But now? He won’t stop staring. He follows me home. He even showed up on my bus, in my part of town—where the streets are cracked and my uniform doesn’t fit the same way. He saw my bruises. My art. The sketchbook full of him. And instead of walking away… he stayed. But I’m not the same girl who used to beg for scraps of his attention. Let him chase. Let him wonder. Because this time—I’m the one who gets to walk away.