(Chapter 1)

The first day of high school was supposed to feel bigger.
 More exciting. More terrifying.
 Instead, it just felt...loud.

I tightened the straps of my backpack and kept my head down as I crossed the courtyard, dodging kids who already had someone to talk to and laugh with. Somewhere near the front steps, a group of volleyball players were goofing off, tossing a ball back and forth like the summer wasn’t over yet.

That’s when I saw him.

Landon Rivers.
 Fifteen years old, just like me, but somehow standing like he already owned the place. Sunlightened hair. That easy, lopsided smile like he didn’t have to try to be happy — he just was.
 He caught the volleyball midair and spiked it toward one of his friends, laughing when he missed.

I slowed my steps without meaning to. As I slowed my steps, the courtyard noise melted into the background. It wasn’t just attraction—it was envy. The way Landon stood so effortlessly, like he belonged in every space he entered. I wished, just for a moment, I had that kind of presence. Instead, I shrank inward, carrying the weight of being unseen.

He wasn’t looking at me. Of course, he wasn’t. 
 Landon barely knew I existed. Sure, we’d been in the same middle school — we even had gym class together last year — but he belonged to a different orbit. The kind of person everyone just liked, automatically. No questions asked.

Meanwhile, I was the kid who won writing contests no one read about and spent my summers indoors drafting love stories for people I didn’t know how to be.
 Straight love stories.
 The kind that made me feel like a liar even when I got every word right. The stories I wrote weren’t just fiction—they were armor. A way to feel something without the risk of living it. I could write love stories so effortlessly, yet I had never truly lived one. Maybe that was the irony of it all.

I adjusted the strap on my shoulder and kept walking, pretending I didn’t care, pretending I didn’t notice how Landon’s laugh made something ache inside me that I didn’t know how to name yet.

High school was supposed to be a fresh start.
 But standing there in the crowded courtyard, invisible, stomach twisted up tight, I realized something:

I hadn’t left anything behind.
 I’d only brought all of it with me.

I slipped inside the building, the cool air blasting me in the face as I found my way toward my first period: Honors English.

Because, of course, if there was one thing I was good at, it was school.

I weaved between clusters of kids standing in the middle of the hallway, trying not to bump into anyone. My heart was still racing from seeing Landon — and for absolutely no reason. It wasn’t like he even saw me. It wasn’t like anything was going to change.

Locker 152.

Top row, way too high for me to reach without looking like an idiot.

I spun the lock, messed up the combination twice because my fingers wouldn’t stay steady, and finally wrenched it open.

From behind me, a familiar voice floated down the hallway — casual, laughing:

"Yo, Rivers! Are you playing pickup after practice?"

I froze.

Landon. Again.

He was close enough that if I turned my head, I could probably see him. Close enough that I could probably even say something, if I were someone else—someone normal, someone braver.

But I stayed facing my locker, pretending to dig for a notebook I didn’t even need yet.

The truth was, I didn’t even know what I would say to him.

Hey Landon, I loved your serve during middle school PE volleyball. By the way, I think about you way too much, and also, I’m not the person I pretend to be when I write all those bestselling romances under a fake name.

Yeah. That would go over really well.

Their voices faded down the hallway, and when I finally turned around, the crowd had swallowed Landon up again.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my hand still gripping the metal inside my locker like it could ground me somehow.

One period.

One day.

One year.

I could survive this.

I had to.

The bell rang, and I grabbed my bag and headed toward English, weaving through the crowd with my head low.

There was one good thing about school, at least.

Nobody here knew that John Turner, awkward freshman with exactly two friends and no idea who he was, was the same person as "Jay T. Morgan," the pen name printed on the covers of two bestselling romance novels.

Nobody knew.

And maybe — just maybe — was the only way I'd make it through.