Page 30 of F*ckboys

"Hey, Aksel," Fallon says as she approaches, her voice a soft melody cutting through the noise. My heart stutters in my chest, but I force a casual grin onto my face.

"Hey, Fallon. What's up?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. My mind races, searching for an escape route from the conversation. But deep down, some part of me wants to stay—wants to linger in her presence and soak up every moment I can.

"Nothing much," she replies, her eyes darting away for a moment before meeting mine again. "Just wanted to remind you about our project for Mr. Thompson's class. We should probably start working on it soon."

I'm not sure what happened over the summer, but something's shifted between us this year. The animosity that oozed from her after my class president prank seems to have dissipated at least partially, like she's open to giving me another chance, or at least a truce. We're in a lot of the same classes, so maybe she just wants being in the same room as me to be more palatable.

"Right, the project," I say, pretending the thought of getting to work with her on something hadn't already consumed me for days. "We'll find some time, don't worry."

"Okay," she says, her lips quirking into a small smile that does nothing to ease the tension between us. If anything, it makes it worse.

"See you around, Aksel," she murmurs, and I can't help but think I hear something else in her voice—a hint of longing,maybe even regret. Or perhaps that's just my own wishful thinking.

"Later, Fallon," I reply, watching as she walks away, her curvy form disappearing into the throng of students. The ache in my chest grows stronger, fueled by the unspoken words that lie between us like a chasm.

I lean against the row of lockers, watching as Fallon maneuvers her way through the crowded hallway. The sea of students parts for her, their whispers carrying a mix of admiration and envy. She's an enigma, equal parts beauty and grace, a force that seems untouchable in this world of cliques and calamity.

"Hey, King." The voice cuts through my thoughts like a serrated blade, and I don't have to turn around to know who it is. Carissa. Her jealousy hangs thick in the air, a toxic cloud that threatens to choke me every time she's near. She's pretty, and I considered dating her at one point, but something about her has always seemed off. And she seems to have a bigger boner for Fallon than I do for some reason, which is obviously saying a lot, because at this point I find it hard to think about anything or anyone else.

"Carissa," I reply, my tone flat. I refuse to let her see how much she gets under my skin. That's what she wants—acknowledgment, power, control. I may be trapped in this web of high school social politics, but I won't give her the satisfaction of feeding into whatever game she's playing today.

"Fallon looks good today, doesn't she?" She smirks, trailing her fingers along my arm in a sickeningly possessive gesture. I tense, fighting the urge to shove her away. I wonder what she's playing at bestowing compliments on her nemesis.

"Sure," I say nonchalantly, shrugging off her touch. "She always does."

Carissa frowns at the compliment directed toward Fallon. "Who do you think she's going to the dance with?" Carissa asks, her voice dripping with false innocence. I know she's fishing for information, trying to get a rise out of me.

"Does it matter?" I snap, my patience wearing thin. I would like nothing more than to take Fallon to the dance, but the thought of her rejecting me, which I probably deserve after the election, the insults and all the other pranks, is too much to bear.

"Of course it matters," she purrs, leaning in close. "After all, you're still pining after her, aren't you?"

"Fuck off, Carissa." My words are harsh, but she only laughs, seeing through my façade of indifference. She knows damn well how much Fallon means to me, how deep these unspoken feelings run. Call it womanly intuition, or call it a teenage girl being a jealous bitch, but she knows.

"Who are you going to the dance with, anyway?" she asks, still hanging onto my arm while Fallon walks back down the hall to retrieve a forgotten item from her locker. A nasty smile plays across her face as Fallon glances at us, her eyes growing wide as she notices Carissa's hold on me. "We could go together, you know. I think we'd make a cute couple." She winks.

"I—um, was thinking of asking someone else," I say, deflecting Carissa's advances. Her mouth curls into a cruel snarl and her eyes narrow as they flit in Fallon's direction.

"Oh well, have fun watching from the sidelines. I heard Fallon's been giving Jimmy all of the blowjobs, and he's planning on giving it to her on prom night," she taunts, sauntering away with a wicked smile. I watch her go, my fists clenched and jaw tight, every muscle in my body screaming for release.

The thought of Fallon bobbing up and down on another guy's cock twists my stomach and crushes my chest until I can barelybreathe. Blood racing to my temples, I have the urge to hunt Jimmy down and knock his head off. But there's no evidence, not that I would expect there to be, and I question whether I can take Carissa's word for it. She seems far too interested in Fallon's every move—and in me—to be a neutral party even though she tries to play it off that way.

I can't shake the feeling that Carissa's venom is poisoning the already fragile connection between Fallon and me, driving us further apart with each passing day. If she's making these types of comments to me, I can only imagine what she's saying to Fallon.

The bitter taste of rage and regret lingers on my tongue as I sift through the memories, searching for answers. My once steady breaths grow ragged with each image that flickers across my mind's eye—a cruel montage of loss and betrayal.

"Carissa," I hiss under my breath, her name a venomous dart in my mouth. She was the architect of our downfall, the serpent in the garden that tempted me to stray from Fallon's side. She'd been relentless in her pursuit, fueled by jealousy and a twisted desire to possess something she could never truly have—my heart.

In hindsight, I see how she'd always find a way to insert herself into my life, slithering into conversations and lingering at the edge of my vision like a predatory shadow. She'd always do just enough to cause damage, but little enough that she could explain it away innocently. My teenage boy brain would always accept her carefully constructed lies at face value.

After everything that happened, her presence was constant and suffocating, always there to remind me of the destruction she had wrought upon my relationship with Fallon. But I still never dated her or took her home, as much as she might have tried.

"Hey Aksel, can I talk to you for a second?" Carissa would ask, batting her eyelashes and feigning innocence. But her intentions were far from pure, and I was too naïve to see through her performance.

"Sure, what's up?" I'd reply, playing right into her hands.

"Have you seen this?" she would say, producing a crumpled piece of paper or an incriminating photograph, fabricated evidence designed to drive a wedge between Fallon and me. "It looks bad, doesn't it?"

My stomach churns at the memory of those lies, how they spread like wildfire through the halls of our high school, sullying Fallon's trust in me. And I didn't help matters—I was weak, unable to resist the pull of Carissa's manipulative tactics. When I should've been strong for Fallon, I let doubt and confusion cloud my judgment, allowing Carissa's poison to seep into the cracks of our fragile foundation.

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