ISABELLE'S POINT OF VIEW
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Again.
I stared at it from where I sat curled up on my bed, knees pulled tight to my chest. I was still in the dress from the gala, wrinkled now, the back digging into my skin, but I hadn't bothered to change. I'd gone to the event only to hide in corners and doorways, avoiding the one person I couldn't bear to look at.
Nathan's name lit up the screen.
I didn't reach for it.
I couldn't.
The memories were too loud. Too close. Too sharp.
Ever since I walked out of his office, the words he said had been replaying in my head like a cruel echo I couldn't shut off.
"I care about you, but not like that. You're like family to me, Isabelle."
Family.
Not like that.
My chest squeezed painfully. I closed my eyes, and the room tilted a little. I'd held it together at the gala. I'd even smiled at people, nodded politely, acted like my heart hadn't cracked in private just hours before.
But now… alone… the memories dragged me under.
Age 12
I couldn't even remember what I wanted from Alex that day. Something stupid, homework help, probably. I knocked on his door, heard him shout, "Come in!" and stepped inside.
Then froze.
It wasn't Alex on the bed.
A boy I'd never seen before sat there, wearing Alex's headphones and flipping through one of his comics like he owned the place. He looked up at me, and I swear the whole room shifted.
Light brown hair. Dimples. Easy smile. And suddenly my tongue stopped working.
"Alex didn't tell me he had a sister," he said.
I opened my mouth to respond, but apparently my voice had abandoned me.
He pulled off the headphones. "I'm Nathan. Alex's friend."
"Isabelle," I managed to whisper.
He grinned. "Pretty name."
Heat rushed up my neck so fast I thought I might pass out.
He went back to the comic as if nothing had happened, like I wasn't standing there staring at him like an idiot.
But I was.
That was the first time I saw him. The first time something fluttered, small, confusing, definitely not normal.
Later, Alex yelled from the living room, "Izzy! Bring us some drinks!"
I should've said no. I should've pretended not to hear. But Nathan was there, and that was enough to make my brain stop behaving.
I filled two glasses with juice and tried to carry them without shaking. But my hands didn't get the memo.
One glass tilted.
I gasped.
And suddenly he was there. His hand shot out and steadied it before it could spill.
"Whoa. Got it."
I froze, mortified. "I… I'm sorry, I…"
"It's okay." He gave me that smile. "I drop things all the time."
He didn't. I knew he didn't.
He said it just to make me feel better.
Something warm took root in my chest, quiet and new.
Age 13
I was leaving school when I heard laughter behind me.
"Alex's little shadow."
I turned and saw Marcus, grinning like he'd told the funniest joke in the world. His friends snickered.
"Does she even talk? Or does she just stalk her brother everywhere?"
My cheeks burned. I looked at the pavement, gripping my backpack straps, wishing I could disappear, or melt into the dirt.
Then a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Hey."
Nathan stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression sharp enough to slice the air in half.
"What did you just say?"
Marcus wilted. "I… nothing, man. Just a joke."
"She's not a shadow." Nathan's voice was ice. "She just doesn't waste words on idiots."
Marcus turned white.
Nathan stepped closer, and for a second I thought he was going to shove him. He didn't. But the threat was there—quiet, unmistakable.
"Say something about her again," he said, "and we're going to have a problem."
Marcus scrambled away with his friends.
Then Nathan turned to me, and the hard edges melted instantly. "You okay?"
I nodded because I didn't trust my voice.
He ruffled my hair and walked off toward Alex like it was no big deal.
But it was.
My heart wouldn't calm down for hours.
That was when admiration settled into something else, something deeper.
Age 14
It was raining so hard that the sky felt angry. I stood at the school gate dripping water everywhere, hugging my soaked jacket around me. The driver was late. Alex had basketball. I was alone.
"Isabelle?"
I turned.
Nathan jogged toward me through the downpour, his jacket pulled over his head. His hair was already plastered to his forehead.
"What are you doing standing out here?"
"Waiting for the car," I muttered, shivering.
Without speaking, he pulled off his hoodie and draped it over my shoulders.
Warm.
Dry.
And it smelled like him, soap, rain, something faintly minty.
"Nathan, you're going to get…"
"I'm fine." He ran a hand through his wet hair. "Keep it."
"But…"
"Return it whenever," he said, smiling. "Or never. It's okay."
Then he jogged back to his car, getting soaked all over again.
I stood there wrapped in him.
That night, I slept with the hoodie beside my pillow.
And I stopped pretending I didn't know what I felt.
Age 15
The boys started noticing me.
Notes in my locker. Awkward compliments whispered behind textbooks. Nervous invitations after class.
I didn't know what to do with any of it.
But they all stopped. Quickly. Every single one.
One day Alex snapped at me in frustration and said it without thinking:
"Nathan scared them off, okay? He took the notes out of your locker. He warned them to stay away."
I just stood there, stunned.
Nathan had chased them all away.
Nathan had been everywhere: my locker, hallways, after school, and I'd thought maybe… maybe it meant something.
Maybe he liked me too.
Maybe he was just waiting.
So I made up my mind.
I would tell him.
I rehearsed a thousand times.
"Nathan, I like you. I've liked you for a long time."
Simple. Honest.
I found him in the backyard one afternoon, scrolling through his phone. This was it. My moment.
"Nathan?"
He looked up and smiled. "Hey, Izzy."
"I… I wanted to tell you something."
"Sure, what is it?"
My heart hammered so loudly it hurt.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced down, and his whole face lit up.
"Hold on," he said. "It's Layla."
I blinked. "Layla?"
"My girlfriend." He grinned at the screen. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
Something inside me collapsed.
"I… nothing. Never mind."
"You sure?" he asked.
I nodded, forcing a smile that hurt my cheeks. "Yeah. Not important."
He reached over and ruffled my hair. "You're like a little sister to me, Izzy. You know that, right?"
Little sister.
It felt like being punched from the inside.
I swallowed everything, every feeling, every hope, and nodded again.
He went back to texting her.
I walked to my room, shut the door quietly, and sat on the floor.
And cried until my chest ached.
That day, I promised myself something:
I would bury it.
All of it.
Everything I felt for him.
I really believed I could.
But, I realized I'd been lying to myself.
The memory dissolved slowly, like smoke thinning in the air, until I was back in my dimly lit room. The air conditioner muttered in the corner, blowing a cold draft against my bare arms, raising a shiver I tried to blame on the temperature.
My phone screen glowed beside me on the bed, too bright, too loud, even in silence.
Then it buzzed.
Nathan.
I didn't need to open it. I already knew the rhythm of his persistence, the calls stacked on calls, the messages I kept swiping away, the quiet desperation in every "please" he sent.
Still, my hand moved on its own.
His name burned at the top of the screen. My thumb hesitated, hovering like touching it might reopen something I was trying so hard to stitch shut. When I finally tapped into our thread, his newest message sat there, simple but heavy enough to press on my ribs:
Isabelle, please. I need to talk to you.
Something twisted deep in my chest, a slow, painful knot. I swallowed hard, forcing the sting in my eyes to retreat. I had promised myself I wouldn't cry this time. Not again. Not for him.
But God, it hurt.
I stared at his message until the words blurred. Until the room felt too quiet. Until breathing felt like a decision I had to make consciously.
Then, with fingers that weren't steady at all, I typed:
Don't call me anymore, Nathan.
I need space.
Please respect that.
I stared at the message for a full second before hitting send, almost hoping my phone would freeze, glitch, give me one last delay.
It didn't.
The message was delivered instantly.
A dull thud echoed through me, the kind that lingers right under the sternum, where regret and resolve fight to coexist. No rush of relief. Just a slow, hollow ache that made me aware of every beat of my heart.
I set the phone down gently, as if being gentle could soften the truth of what I'd just done.
Then I turned it off.
Not out of anger.
Out of self-preservation.
I pushed myself up, legs slightly unsteady, and crossed the room. My reflection in the window was blurred, but I could still see the shine in my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, breathing in deep, trying to steady the tremor in my chest.
In the quiet, I whispered, not to him, not even to the memory of him, but to the part of me that still reached for him out of habit:
"I have to stop loving you."
The words tasted unfamiliar. Unbelieved.
But I said them anyway.
And then I walked out of my room.
Even if my heart stayed behind for a second too long.