In the winter of my seventeenth year, I met someone who would complicate things. It started with a melody.
I had been humming, an unconscious habit. Not a specific song, just a tune that bloomed from my mind in the moment. I didn't even realize I was doing it until someone else responded – with a whistle. It wasn’t the crass, attention-seeking kind. This was low, almost appreciative, a subtle acknowledgment of the tune. I turned around, curiosity piqued.
Standing before me was a guy with sun-bleached blonde hair and eyes the color of jade. His face was sharp, defined by a strong jawline. He was undeniably handsome, and annoyingly familiar. We had a few classes together, but I couldn't place his name.
“Wow. Which song was that?” he asked, a grin playing on his lips.
I laughed nervously. “Um, oh. It wasn’t any song. Just a random tune. Just… me being me.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in music, Chase. People say you don’t even know who the Beatles are—”
“I *know* who the Beatles are,” I scowled, “I don’t live under a rock, you know.”
Damn it. His name… it was on the tip of my tongue.
“But you don’t listen to their songs. It’s a pity really. With a voice like yours, you could have done something in music,” He said, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jeans. We stared at each other, a silent challenge passing between us.
Then it clicked. “You don’t remember my name, do you?” he asked, a playful smile tilting his lips.
“Of course I do, Alex!” I blurted, relieved. “Have a little faith in my brainpower and the number of classes we both are assigned to.”
Three classes, to be exact. I’d seen him in three classes and hadn’t bothered to learn his name. I really needed to pay attention to my surroundings.
He continued smiling, and the warmth spread to my own face. He walked slowly toward me, hands still in his pockets. I stood rooted to the spot, artbook clutched in one hand and a bag covered in badges slung over my shoulder.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I echoed.
“My name is unfortunately not Alex.” His voice was light, teasing.
Dammit.
“Oh. Um. Well… uh…” I stammered, a flush rising in my cheeks. “Sorry?”
He chuckled. “Well, I remembered *your* name. But you didn’t remember mine. So, how are you gonna compensate for this grave mistake?”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Oh shut up. You just know my family name.”
“It’s Harper. Your name is Harper Chase.”
I stared into his green eyes, and he stared into my blue ones.
“Nevermind then,” I bit my lips. He was being undeniably flirtatious, and it was starting to prickle my nerves with a thrilling kind of energy.
Turns out, I could compensate him by “buying lunch.” I agreed, of course.
But as I walked away, a strange disappointment settled over me. I wanted him to ask something else, to push further. I made a mental note to ask *him* his name again when I saw him at lunch.
It was still hours away, so I resumed walking, already anticipating the next encounter.
• • •
I headed to Chemistry, dreading the class. I did well in Chem, but I loathed it because of our teacher, Mr. Rode.
He was fresh out of college, ambitious, kind, handsome, young… and obsessed with pairing students. He didn’t just assign seats; he ‘shipped’ us based on visuals and personalities – probably because he had some weird, creepy complex about it.
And it wasn’t just the seating chart. He *made* us sit with our assigned partners and changed it every week. People dreaded Mondays because of this.
Although I didn't mind changing seats every single week, because it was a nice chance to find a boyfriend and miss the first 15 minutes of class... Until I was made to sit with Natasha Kingsley. God, it was HELL . Imagine sitting shoulder to shoulder next to the person you kill in your dreams. It was irritating, annoying, and downright exhausting. I think my blood pressure rose twice the amount in that one week of class than it ever did in my life.
I didn’t even mind that he was making – a heterosexual female – sit with another girl, because it was a pretty well-known fact that Mr. Rode was bonkers and I liked guys. The true problem was that he made me sit next to Natasha Kingsley. That bitch .
And his reason? According to him, we seemed like the perfect enemies-to-lovers couple. What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? How the fuck do enemies find it in themself to love each other? Gross .
Anyway, this was the day I was freed of Natasha Kingsley forever, and I couldn’t be more grateful. But that gratefulness turned into annoyance after wondering what would happen if that psycho teacher made me sit next to another weirdo.
I literally dragged myself into the classroom, bracing for the inevitable. Everyone was already standing, waiting for the seating chart shuffle. I sighed. It was such a normal routine that no one bothered to argue anymore.
I groaned and stood next to the groaning, hormonal mass of my peers. This class was like a real-time version of Tinder. Only it was for minors. And it was against their will. Wasn't this shit illegal or something?
Soon, Mr. Rode arrived, beaming with manic energy. He lived for this.
He called out two names, pairing a boy and a girl, occasionally pairing two boys or two girls. Some couples sat together, others were torn apart and forced to sit with strangers. People who wanted to be left alone were made to socialize. And people who liked to socialize were left alone (if they weren't shipped with anyone – that was probably another kind of burn on the ego). So yeah, it was pretty weird and awkward and the only person left smiling was Mr. Rode himself.
Suddenly, I heard my name.
“Harper Chase—” I got up, “—and Alec Smith.”
I sat on a lab table on the inner side. It felt nice to sit beside the window. A cool breeze fanned my face, and I could look out at the numerous people who were playing in the field. Those who had free time or had to practice. And, I closed my eyes and enjoyed it.
I felt someone sit next to me.
“Hey, Chase.” An oddly familiar voice said.
And I turned immediately, only to see the guy I had talked to minutes ago. The guy I thought was "Alex" but whose actual name was apparently "Alec (Smith)"
My cheeks burned.
“Apparently we are shipped,” He chuckled.