Wyatt Martinez had been the certified heartthrob since, like, sophomore year. It wasn’t even something he tried to do. The man could literally be walking down the hall half-asleep with bedhead and hoodie strings in his mouth, and half the school would still be feral. Girls loved him. Teachers gave him way too much leniency just because he’d flash that smile. And the guys? Yeah, they weren’t exactly fans. Especially not the ones who had girlfriends practically foaming at the mouth whenever Wyatt so much as breathed. The air crackled with tension whenever he entered a room, a mix of admiration and resentment hanging thick like summer humidity.

Like, imagine your girl staring at some dude like he was the main character in her favorite Wattpad mafia romance. Yeah. You’d be mad too. The neon lights of the party cast colorful shadows across Wyatt's face as he leaned against the wall, watching you from across the room. The bass from the speakers vibrated in his chest, matching the rhythm of his racing heart.

But here’s the twist: while everyone assumed Wyatt was just living his best player life with all these options lined up, the truth was... nah. Zero interest. He didn’t care about any of those girls. He wasn’t sneaking around, he wasn’t trying to collect bodies. Nope. His hopeless romantic little heart only wanted one person. The smell of alcohol and sweat filled his nostrils as he took another sip from his red solo cup, his eyes never leaving your form.

Do you know who that was? Not Violet. Not Alexis from cheer. Not even the art girl with eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Nope. Wyatt was, unfortunately, stupidly, helplessly in love with *you. The man. The myth. The absolute legend. The sound of your laughter cut through the noise of the party, and Wyatt felt a pang in his chest—a mixture of longing and jealousy as he saw you talking to someone else.

Wyatt had known you forever. Like, literally since he stepped foot into that school. And it wasn’t just admiration, it was the kind of crush that made him feel twelve again. He’d get jealous over the dumbest things—like if you laughed a little too hard at someone else’s joke. Or if Violet posted a pic with you on Instagram and tagged it “my love <3”. Wyatt would be scrolling at 3am, staring at it, listening to some sad indie playlist, and physically fighting the air. The memory of that night with Violet still haunted him, the taste of regret bitter on his tongue even now.

So, yeah, when you and Violet started dating, it was game over. He was spiraling. And then, somehow, somehow, he ended up hooking up with Violet at a college party. Yada yada yada—bad decisions, tequila, Violet being messy—boom. Disaster. The distant thump of the music seemed to mock him as he remembered the look on your face when you found out.

And here’s the wild part: Violet moved on like it was nothing. She bounced to some new situationship in like two weeks. But Wyatt? Wyatt was devastated. And not even because of Violet. It was because he knew, deep in his soul, that he’d just done the one thing that guaranteed you would hate his guts. The sound of a glass breaking somewhere in the distance made him jump, pulling him back to the present moment.

Fast forward eight months. Eight entire months of radio silence. Eight months of you treating him like a ghost, like he’d never even existed. Wyatt had tried every possible tactic—subtweeting sad quotes, sending memes at 2am, showing up in the same spaces “accidentally on purpose.” Nothing worked. You were stone cold. The feel of his phone in his pocket was a constant reminder of the texts he’d never sent, the apologies he couldn’t bring himself to type.

And listen—Wyatt could’ve just apologized like a normal person. But nope. Pride. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. So instead, he settled for being the world’s most annoying mosquito in your life. The neon sign above the bar flickered, casting a red glow over his face as he made his decision.

Which brings us to tonight. A mutual’s party. Music blasting, red solo cups everywhere, people making terrible life choices in every corner. And Wyatt? Already seven drinks in, stumbling around with his shirt half-unbuttoned like he thought he was in an early 2000s rom-com. The room spun slightly as he pushed away from the wall, determined to talk to you.

The second his eyes landed on you, it was game over. He beelined straight for you, practically launching himself into your space, clinging onto your arm like you were besties again. The warmth of your skin against his sent a shiver down his spine.

“Bro, please talk to me,” Wyatt slurred, words dripping with desperation and tequila. “You can’t keep ghosting me forever. Like, we had *history*. You can’t erase me from your lore, man.” His breath smelled of alcohol as he spoke, his hazel-green eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness.

And you just stared at him, probably deciding whether to laugh, punch him, or just walk away. Meanwhile, Wyatt was already mentally writing his apology speech in his head—except, knowing him, it was about to come out all wrong.