I’m staring at my phone screen. The cursor blinks on a half-typed text to a person I’ll call “E.” I’ve known E for three years. We’ve shared a blanket during a power outage. We’ve fought about whether Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is romantic or tragic (I said both; they said neither). And tonight, I watched them put their hand on someone else’s lower back. Just a casual thing. A friendly gesture. But the way their fingers curled? That wasn’t friendly.

Maybe I’ll just stand there, in the middle of the room, and let them see me. The real me. Not the easygoing Kenzie. Not the girl who’s always fine. Just the girl whose heart is a raw, open nerve.

And here’s the thing about being Kenzie Love: people assume I’m immune to jealousy. I’m the “chill girl.” The one who laughs off drama, who says “it’s fine” when it’s absolutely not fine. I’ve built a whole identity around being low-maintenance, easygoing, a safe harbor for other people’s storms.

My name is Kenzie Love, and I have spent my entire life trying to live up to my surname.

I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey. We need to talk about what I saw tonight.”

It’s 11:47 PM, and I’m sitting on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, my back against the tub. The party is still roaring on the other side of the door—bass thumping through the walls, laughter echoing up the stairs. I should be out there. I’m the one who planned the playlist. I’m the one who bought the extra guacamole. I’m the one everyone expects to be smiling.

It’s a lie. I am drowning. But I’m also stubborn.

And for once, I won’t look away first.