London

London adjusted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder as he walked down the crowded school hallway, his expression carefully blank despite the way his jaw had been clenched since first period.

The corridor buzzed with noise.

Lockers slammed shut. Conversations overlapped in a chaotic mixture of laughter and complaints about homework. Someone further down the hall was trying to convince their friend that they'd definitely pass their chemistry exam despite having never opened the textbook. Another group was arguing over weekend plans.

Normally, London would've been able to tune it all out.

Not today.

His fingers tightened slightly around the stack of books pressed against his chest.

Because somewhere in this hallway—

You existed.

That thought alone managed to sour his mood.

He hated you.

At least, that's what he'd been telling himself for months.

Ever since Lola had broken up with him.

The memory still sat unpleasantly in the back of his mind.

"I think you'd understand eventually."

As if anyone understood being replaced.

One minute, she'd been his girlfriend.

The next, she'd been holding hands with you.

And you—

Tall.

Infuriating.

Completely unapologetic.

You'd met his glare from across crowded classrooms with a smirk that made something hot and unpleasant twist in his chest.

Books had mysteriously ended up scattered across the floor after encounters with you.

Shoulders had collided in narrow hallways.

You'd looked entirely too pleased with yourself whenever Lola wrapped an arm around yours.

London should've hated you solely because of that.

It would've been simpler.

Lola had been kind.

Funny.

Patient.

She'd remembered his favourite snacks and insisted that putting pineapple on pizza should be considered a crime.

When they dated, he'd liked being around her.

He'd liked the comfort of having someone choose him.

So why—

Why had every bitter glance directed toward you felt heavier than anything involving Lola?

Why had he found himself watching you instead?

He noticed the way you laughed with your friends.

The way you leaned lazily against walls.

The slight tilt of your head whenever someone spoke to you.

He'd memorised things he had absolutely no business knowing.

You preferred mechanical pencils.

You always rolled up your sleeves when concentrating.

You hated tomatoes.

Stupid things.

Pointless things.

Things London definitely shouldn't have noticed.

Especially not after Lola.

He turned a corner sharply, irritation simmering beneath his skin.

It wasn't fair.

Lola had moved on.

She looked happy.

She'd chosen someone else.

So why wasn't he angry at her?

Why did the frustration settle somewhere deeper whenever he saw you standing beside her?

Every time she touched your arm—

Every time she smiled at you—

Every time she leaned close—

Something uncomfortable lodged itself beneath his ribs.

Not because he wanted her back.

That was the problem.

He didn't.

He'd realised that weeks ago.

The thought should've been relieving.

Instead, it had raised questions he'd spent months aggressively avoiding.

Questions he couldn't answer.

Questions that left him awake later than he cared to admit.

Because jealousy wasn't supposed to feel like this.

It wasn't supposed to come with the sudden awareness of how your hair fell into your eyes.

Or the embarrassing tendency to replay every argument the two of you had ever had.

Or the way his pulse skipped whenever you ended up standing too close.

No.

That wasn't normal.

That wasn't hatred.

Hatred was straightforward.

Hatred didn't make his stomach flip.

Hatred didn't leave him wondering what it would've been like if circumstances had been different.

If Lola had never been involved.

If the two of you had met without immediately becoming rivals.

If the first thing you'd ever exchanged hadn't been sharp words and narrowed eyes.

London exhaled heavily through his nose.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

He adjusted the books in his arms.

Then froze.

Because there you were.

Standing further down the hallway.

His heart immediately betrayed him.

One sharp thud.

Then another.

His expression flattened into annoyance automatically.

Because of course it did.

Months of mutual irritation had become second nature.

He could practically predict the tension that settled between the two of you whenever you occupied the same space.

And yet—

The familiar knot of jealousy was there too.

Tighter now.

Stronger.

Uncomfortable in its honesty.

He didn't want Lola back.

He couldn't even pretend otherwise anymore.

He wanted—

No.

Absolutely not.

London stared at you from across the hallway.

He remembered every dismissive look.

Every irritating smirk.

Every time you'd driven him insane simply by existing.

And somehow—

Despite all of it—

He'd still noticed the colour of your eyes.

Still found himself looking for you without meaning to.

Still felt that awful twisting sensation whenever Lola reached for your hand.

Because the jealousy had never been directed at her.

The realisation settled heavily in his chest.

Terrifying in its simplicity.

He wasn't upset because Lola had chosen you.

He was upset because you had chosen Lola.

His grip tightened around his books.

He should walk away.

Ignore you.

Pretend none of these thoughts had ever crossed his mind.

Instead, London found himself stopping several feet away.

His pulse hammered loudly enough that he was certain you could hear it.

His throat felt strangely dry.

For once, the familiar insults refused to come.

The rehearsed bitterness dissolved before it could reach his tongue.

He looked at you for a long moment before finally speaking.

"...You know, I really wish I hated you as much as I keep pretending I do."