Chapter 1: The Confession Crash

I've been really unlucky lately. Case in point: this morning I spilled coffee down the front of my hoodie, and the stain looks exactly like a sad face.

Honestly, it’s like I’m running a streak so bad even my Co–Star app would suggest switching star signs. My best friend pinged me, “The Pattern says: try being a different person,” and I laughed while fiddling with my evil-eye bracelet, a lucky scrunchie on my wrist, double-checking angel numbers—and yes, still joking about carrying a literal rabbit’s foot.

Last month, on Thanksgiving break—campus dorms were open and everyone was doing a Friendsgiving thing—Derek, the sophomore I'd had a crush on forever, confessed to his dream girl and actually succeeded. Then he flaunted their relationship all over Instagram Stories with a caption like, “We said yes!! 🥧🦃”.

It was like a cheesy rom-com unfolding in real life, except I was just the bystander liking photos through tears and microwaved Costco pumpkin pie. The comments section lit up with heart emojis on their Stories, and I found myself typing “congrats” with the same enthusiasm as someone stuck on I-95 on Black Friday—and yes, my inner voice added a whole lot of eye-roll.

I was feeling pretty down, but I still joined the crowd in the comments and, with a heavy heart, gave them a like—thumb hovering between a red heart and an awkward thumbs-up before I finally chose the heart.

My thumb hovered over that little heart, and when I tapped it, I felt like I was sealing my fate as a background character in their love story. My stomach dropped, my throat tightened, and that tiny tap felt heavier than a ten-pound turkey. NPC energy, unlocked.

A few days ago, during the fall break, I got dragged into a charity hiking event to help my roommate Tanya and her not-quite-boyfriend, Marcus, out near our Midwest college town.

Honestly, I thought hiking meant grabbing a PSL and strolling around the campus arboretum, not sweating up a hill with a bunch of over-caffeinated college kids clutching Starbucks cups, Dunkin’ bags, and clanking Stanley tumblers. Tanya swore it would be a bonding experience. Spoiler: It was, just not the kind I wanted.

I nearly got lost on that trip.

I’m not kidding—I missed the trail markers in the high prairie wind and muddy leaf-covered trail, and for a hot minute, I thought I’d end up in one of those “missing hiker” news segments. My phone’s GPS had zero bars, and the only comfort was a sad granola bar melting in my pocket while I squinted at a trail map kiosk I couldn’t quite read.

That day, I even went into a small-town church hoping to light a candle and change my luck, but a friendly church volunteer—half-joking—told me I was “missing water in my birth chart.”

I’d never heard that one before. He squinted at me like I was missing some cosmic ingredient. In a Midwest church, that sounded about as mystical as finding a unicorn in the pews. I just nodded politely and tried not to laugh.

When I got back, clinging to the idea that it's better to believe than not, I cleaned the apartment while my roommates were out.

If superstition meant scrubbing every surface, then I was about to have the cleanest karma in Sweet Home Apartments. I went full Marie Kondo with a Swiffer, Clorox wipes, and a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, humming Taylor Swift—“Clean,” then “Anti-Hero”—and hoping the universe was paying attention.

I worked until just now, finally finishing all the chores involving water.

I washed every dish, wiped the counters, scrubbed bathroom tiles, even tackled the mildew under the sink. I ran laundry, too. My fingers were pruney and smelled like lemon-scented Lysol, but hey—maybe that’d count for good luck.

Then the faucet stopped working.

Of course it did. Right when I was rinsing the last mug, the faucet sputtered and died. I tried the shutoff valve under the sink—no luck—then texted my roommates, “FYI, sink’s acting possessed. Handling it!” I just stood there, staring at the drip, wondering if my bad luck was contagious.

While I was out picking up my DoorDash dinner, water flooded our apartment—Sweet Home.

You know that sinking feeling when you come home and see your hallway squishing under your feet? That was me, clutching my burrito bowl and staring at a small-scale disaster, the kind that makes landlords twitch.

I hurried to report it to the building supervisor, got scolded, then started mopping, fetching water, dumping it into the basin.

I called the maintenance hotline on the building app and the super—Mr. Kelly—barked, “You can’t leave a running faucet, kid!” I apologized on repeat and offered to pay whatever fee it took. Then I grabbed every towel we owned and started mopping like I was in an Olympic sport.

He barked at me about "young people these days" and threatened a maintenance fee. I apologized, grabbed every towel we owned, and started mopping like I was in an Olympic sport. Sweat mixed with panic as cold water soaked my socks, I slipped once, recovered, and dumped Target bath towels’ worth of water into the tub, basin after basin.

And here's the main point.

Some disasters come with plot twists. I was mid-mop when shouts and laughter drifted up from downstairs, the kind of commotion that promises drama—thankfully, the building uses LED candles for events, so no fire hazard.

Suddenly, there was a commotion downstairs.

I poked my head out the window from our second-floor landing that overlooks an open atrium, curiosity overriding exhaustion. My socks were soggy but my FOMO was stronger. I could hear people giggling and someone yelling about “romance in the air.”

After a busy day, of course I wanted to join the fun.

No matter how tired you are, campus drama is always worth a peek. I figured maybe it was another over-the-top proposal or a TikTok challenge gone wrong—LED candles, not real flames, thank goodness.

So, not caring that I still had a basin in my hand, I poked my head downstairs to look.

If I’d thought twice, I would’ve dropped the basin first. But nope—I just leaned out over the railing of the second-floor landing, balancing like a circus act.

Oh—it was a confession scene. Someone was arranging heart-shaped candles, all lit up.

The flickering lights (battery candles, don’t worry) made the whole entryway glow, like something straight out of a rom-com. The crowd hushed as the shapes took form, heartbeats matching the rhythm of the “flames,” and an RA hovered nearby with a fire extinguisher just in case.

A guy in a tracksuit and a black baseball cap looked pretty tall, but I couldn't see his face clearly.

His broad shoulders caught the candlelight, and even from a distance, you could tell he was the type who turns heads at pep rallies. My heart did a little flip—I mean, who doesn’t love a good mystery?

Tanya held her forehead: "Then you poured the water from the basin down?"

She looked at me like I’d just committed a felony. I wanted to crawl under the couch and hide. The memory played out in slow motion.

Let me clarify: it was an accident.

I swear on my student ID, it wasn’t intentional. I just wanted to see his face, but fate—or my slipper—had other plans.

I just wanted to see his face clearly, but my slipper slipped, my hand shook, and that's how I drenched him.

One minute I was straining for a better look, the next my feet slid out from under me and the basin tipped. Water rained down like a DIY sprinkler system—right onto the poor guy and his entire candle setup.

The guy was soaked, the candles went out, and I panicked.

Everyone gasped. The crowd burst into confused laughter and half the heart-shaped candles fizzled out. I nearly dropped my phone, heart racing. I was mortified.

Panicked but still managed to grab a blanket and run downstairs to help.

Adrenaline kicked in—I snatched Tanya's Spider-Man blanket off the couch and dashed downstairs like a fire drill. My voice cracked as I apologized, cheeks burning, and the crowd’s sudden silence made it worse. I even heard one whispered “yikes” from somewhere behind me.

That's when I finally saw his face up close.

He looked like he’d just walked off a magazine cover—wet hair slicked back, jawline so sharp you could cut paper on it. The blanket felt suddenly inadequate.

He was really handsome.

I mean, unfairly handsome. The kind of guy you’d expect in a Nike ad or leading the homecoming parade. All I could do was stare and hope he’d forgive me for turning his big moment into a water show.

A perfectly chiseled jawline, high nose bridge, slender brows and eyes, with a cold vibe all around him.

He had a straight nose, sharp, well-defined features, strong cheekbones, and an unreadable gaze that could chill a room. Even soggy and annoyed, he managed to look like someone’s movie crush.

He just stared at me calmly, serious-faced, making me nervous.

His steady look made my stomach flip. I tapped the rim of the basin with one finger, cleared my throat, and my brain muttered, “Abort mission?” as I fidgeted with the blanket.

I quickly handed him the blanket, hoping he'd wrap up.

My words tumbled out faster than my thoughts. I practically shoved the blanket at him, praying he’d accept it as an apology for the soaking.

"Here, take it."

My voice cracked mid-sentence. If I could’ve run away, I would’ve. Instead, I just stood there, eyes darting anywhere but his face as the crowd went quiet.

He didn't appreciate it and let out an angry laugh: "What? Planning to just let it go like this?"

He gave a dry, annoyed chuckle, and it cut deeper than any angry shout. The crowd went quiet, sensing the tension, and I wished the earth would swallow me whole.

Oh no.

My mind flashed through every possible apology, none of them good enough. This was going south, fast.

He was about to get mad.

I could see it—his brow furrowed, shoulders stiff. The crowd was getting bigger, phones pointed our way. I didn’t need more witnesses.

Seeing more and more people gathering, I didn't care about anything else—threw the blanket at him and ran upstairs.

Flight mode: activated. I tossed the blanket, nearly slipped on the wet step, someone yelled “Watch it!” and I dashed up the stairs, leaving behind a trail of mortification.

Then I argued with Tanya.

She met me at the door, arms crossed, and the interrogation began. My cheeks burned as I tried to explain myself.

"Tanya, please don't blame me! You said your not-quite-boyfriend would come confess to you today, but you sprained your ankle and ended up in the hospital, maybe he didn't get the message..."

My words came out in a jumble, voice shaky. I waved my phone. “I texted at 7:03 p.m., no reply!” I gestured wildly, trying to convince her I hadn’t just sabotaged someone’s big moment out of jealousy or spite.

"No, Aubrey, listen to me. Ahem, my not-quite-boyfriend is in the hospital with me right now. By the way, we're official now. Also, the handsome guy downstairs arranging candles was actually sent by him to collect the candles—he's Marcus's roommate and teammate, Caleb."

Wait, what? That twist hit harder than the water. I blinked, trying to process the names—Marcus, Caleb, candles? And Caleb—as in the swim team captain? I felt like I was in a college soap opera.

What the heck?

I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. My mind replayed the scene in fast-forward, connecting faces and names like a weird true-crime board.

"You should've seen him. He was in the hiking group too."

Tanya tried to jog my memory, but all I could picture was a blur of athletic guys, sweat, and awkward small talk.

Thinking about how I might become the school's laughingstock tomorrow, I covered my face, wanting to cry.

The thought of waking up to group chats—Snapchat, GroupMe, Discord servers—filled with memes about my accidental attack on a campus celebrity made me want to hibernate until finals.

Tanya's words triggered my memories—she was both right and wrong.

I dug through my mental scrapbook for anything about Caleb. Nothing. Only foggy recollections of swim team trophies and hallway glances.

That time, Caleb joined the hike as Marcus's good friend, but we had zero interaction.

The closest I’d gotten to him was standing in line at the church, my nerves shot from too much caffeine and not enough luck.

At most, when lining up at the church to light candles, I went to the restroom, came back, and it was his turn. But as I walked over, he glanced at me, then turned away coldly and left.

It was a quick, silent exchange—barely a second. The scent of old wood polish and faint candle wax lingered; I clasped my hands, nerves buzzing. He seemed miles away, lost in his own thoughts. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

Absolutely zero communication.

Not a word, not even a “hey.” Just a glance and a cold shoulder. So much for campus camaraderie.

So it's no wonder I had no impression of him.

My life was filled with loud roommates and loud feelings—Caleb was just a passing shadow.

He's a campus celebrity, not in my major, so no overlap is normal, but I've heard plenty of rumors about him.

The swim team’s group chat was a constant stream of gossip—Caleb’s name came up like clockwork. Everyone had a story, an opinion, a wild theory.

Caleb led the swim team to win the league championship.

He was the campus star, a record-holder in our conference, and the kind of MVP who got his photo on the college website and free smoothies from the campus café.

Caleb was confessed to by the campus queen.

Everyone remembered when Lillian, the student council’s rising star, publicly declared her crush on him. It was legendary—like a promposal with confetti.

Caleb is a trust fund kid.

Rumor had it his dad drove a Tesla and his mom ran a boutique in Chicago. Classic rumor mill stuff—fun to text about, rarely reliable.

......

He's always recognized as the cold-faced handsome guy, acting aloof, seemingly only focused on swimming.

He walked through the halls with headphones in, barely nodding at anyone. The rumor mill called him “Iceberg Caleb.” I never even thought about melting his exterior.

I never wanted to approach him, not wanting to get cold-shouldered. Besides, Derek was my little ray of sunshine back then—how could an iceberg like Caleb compare?

Derek was the sweet guy with sunflowers in his Instagram bio. Caleb was the mystery. I was Team Sunshine, not Team Arctic Chill.

Now, I want to take back those foolish thoughts.

It hit me in waves—the kind that crash over your old crushes and rewrite history. Caleb was objectively gorgeous, and maybe mysterious was better than predictable.

Because Caleb is truly handsome, and I really want him.

I almost laughed at myself for flipping so fast, guilt squeezing in for half a second—but hey, college crushes change like Midwest weather.

I thought I'd never see Caleb again.

I figured he’d be off winning medals or dodging drama, leaving me to repair my dignity in peace.

Even if I did, I'd avoid him.

No way I wanted a repeat performance. If I saw him in the dining hall, I’d probably fake a phone call or duck behind a vending machine.