I set the phone down. Face-down. Because if I see the screen light up with their name, I’ll crumble. And I can’t crumble. Not yet. Not here.
Instead, I stand up. I splash cold water on my face. I look at my reflection—messy bun, mascara slightly smudged, a small silver necklace with a crescent moon that E gave me for my birthday. I touch the charm. It’s warm from my skin. kenzie love pov
But inside my chest, right now, it doesn’t feel like a safe harbor. It feels like a shipwreck. I set the phone down
I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey. We need to talk about what I saw tonight.” And I can’t crumble
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.