It’s been a strange few days without Naomi.

The hallways seem quieter, and everything feels just a bit off-balance, like I’m walking through some slightly distorted version of my usual school day.

I’ve been doing my best to avoid any of the places we’d used to meet up—by the lockers, the art rooms, near the science wing, even the little alcove near the back stairwell where we’d sometimes eat lunch in secret, away from the chaos of the cafeteria.

Funny, those places were comforting when she was around, but now they feel like they’re filled with landmines ready to explode the moment I set foot there.

Not seeing her has helped, I guess, a little.

At least I don’t have to feel that painful twist in my stomach every time I look up and see her face, every time I remember.

I wish I could just ignore it all, shut her out of my mind completely, but it’s like she’s still here, everywhere, even when she’s not.

Sometimes when I’m with Mia and Jacob at lunch, or working on my contest submissions, Naomi sneaks into my mind.

She’s in the laughter I can’t quite muster, in the corners of rooms that feel emptier than they should. I keep waiting for her to show up, almost like I’m hoping for it, like she’ll say something, anything, that could make this all disappear. Make all of this hurt less.

I hate that part of me still holds onto that hope. It’s like this tiny, stubborn fire that refuses to burn out, even when I try to smother it.

It’s exhausting, and I think it’s what’s keeping me from moving on. If that's even a possibility.

First love is amazing but no one ever prepares you for your first heartbreak. It's fucking trash!

Then there’s Sarah on the other side of the school.

I’ve run into her a couple of times this week, which is weird because we don’t exactly travel in the same circles.

She’s Naomi’s crowd, the same crowd that would look right through me as if I didn’t exist and dare each other to play with my feelings.

But now, every time I see her, she seems to have this look—this sad knowing look—that drives me crazy. I want to shake it off, ignore her, pretend I don’t notice.

But today, as I’m shoving books into my locker before history class, I see her standing a few lockers down, and the thought crosses my mind: Maybe she’s seen Naomi, she can tell me something about how she is doing. Is she okay without me? Because I'm not! Maybe she can give me the closure I need.

Before I can stop myself, I’m glancing over, wondering if I should just ask.

How’s Naomi? Where has she been? Why hasn’t she tried to talk to me, to explain and I don't mean over two lousy texts.

But then the anger hits me just as fast, like a slap.

Why should I care?

Naomi’s the reason I’m here, feeling like an idiot. She’s the one who played me, who made this all feel real, only for it to turn out to be a game.

I turn back to my locker, pretending to rummage through my bag, hoping Sarah won’t notice me. I tell myself to stay focused.

I have my contest coming up in two weeks. This is the worst possible time to get wrapped up in old wounds.

But then, as if she’s reading my mind, Sarah calls out, “Hey, Luna.”

I take a breath, closing my locker slowly and turn around, putting on the most indifferent expression I can manage.

“Hey,” I reply, keeping my tone light. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I’m bracing myself, my guard is already up.

She hesitates which only makes my heart race faster. She’s looking at me with an expression that’s so different from her usual smiles and warmth. I can’t tell if it’s pity or guilt or something in between.

“Naomi’s...not doing so great,” she finally says.

I feel my stomach drop, and my hands clench into fists before I can stop them.

I want to act like this doesn’t affect me, like hearing that doesn’t make my chest tighten. But of course it does.

I swallow, forcing myself to stay calm.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I say, voice cold.

Sarah raises an eyebrow, her eyes sharp and strangely sympathetic. “Really? I thought you might...”

I let out a short laugh. “She made her choices, Sarah. She’s the one who did this, not me.”

There’s a pause, and Sarah just nods, looking at the ground for a second before meeting my gaze again.

“I know,” she says softly, and her tone surprises me.

It’s not defensive, not dismissive. It’s almost just sad.

“I’m not saying you should forgive her. I just thought… maybe you’d want to know.”

She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there. I feel rooted to the spot, like the world is moving on without me, and I’m the only one stuck.

The bell rings, pulling me back to reality.

I grip the strap of my bag and head toward my next class. The noise, the laughter, the slamming lockers—it all feels too loud. I don’t know why Sarah’s words are getting to me this much.

Part of me wants to brush it off, let  go and focus on the things that matter. But there’s this nagging feeling, this stupid, stubborn part of me that cares, even though I wish it didn’t.

By the time I’m sitting in the photography department after class, I’m practically on autopilot and my heart’s not in it.

I line up shots, adjust the lighting, but every click of the shutter feels hollow, like I’m just going through the motions.

My camera used to be my escape, the one place where I could let everything else fade away. But now, I can’t stop thinking about Naomi.

Her laugh, her smile, her touch, her hugs, I hate that I can remember all of that so clearly.

I glance down at the photo I’ve just taken—a portrait that’s supposed to capture resilience and strength. But instead, it feels empty, like it’s missing something. Or maybe I’m just projecting.

I don’t even know anymore.

I start developing some of the other shots, hoping the process will distract me, but it only makes things worse. Each image I pull up seems to reflect the mess of emotions inside me. I see fragments of my hurt, my anger, and, beneath all of it, the stupid, stubborn hope that maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe there’s something I don’t know.

But as I stare at the final print, I know I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hanging on to the “maybes.” I wanted something real with Naomi, and that’s what I thought I had, but maybe I was wrong. The hardest part is admitting that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her, or if I even want to.

But for now, I have to let go—of her, of this hurt, of all the things I thought we had.