VOLUME I ACT I CHAPTER TWO The New Girl in His House (Part One)
VOLUME I
ACT I
CHAPTER TWO
The New Girl in His House
(Part One)
I didn’t mean to become the favorite.
But I did.
His mom. His brother. His friends.
Even his dog.
They all started to love me before he ever truly saw me.
But I never wanted to be a guest in his world.
I wanted to be a chapter, a whole damn volume.
The first time I entered their house “officially,” I was wearing a sky-blue hoodie and denim shorts.
Nothing fancy. I didn’t want to look like I was trying.
Even though I was.
God, I was always trying.
His younger brother had invited me over to play video games. It was a Saturday. Late morning. Their house smelled like cinnamon and citrus, like someone had cleaned recently, or always cleaned.
It was warm. Lived-in. Cozy.
And his mom?
She was sunshine with caffeine. The type who talks fast and hugs tighter.
“You must be her,” she said.
I blinked.
“Her?”
“The friend. The best one. He talks about you all the time.”
I smiled.
“Oh… yeah. That’s me.”
That day, she offered me snacks. Then tea. Then lunch. Then photos.
Photos of her son, my obsession, on the fridge, in frames, on the hallway walls. I absorbed every one like a visual diary.
“That was him in high school.”
“That's from his first college game.”
“This one? He had a fever but still went to prom.”
I asked polite questions.
She gave generous answers.
I already knew a lot, but now I had details: the nickname she used for him as a baby, how he broke his arm falling off a bike when he was ten, how he hated seafood because of a field trip to the aquarium.
Every detail felt like a new piece of a puzzle I was building in secret.
The full image of the man I wanted, no, needed, to belong to.
I visited again the following weekend.
And again the weekend after that.
I didn’t need an invitation after the fifth time.
I brought small things, cookies, new games, homemade brownies once that his mom swore were “better than boxed.”
I offered to help with the dishes, carry in groceries, sweep the hallway.
His mom said, “You’re such a sweet girl. Any guy would be lucky.”
I smiled, carefully.
I already knew who I wanted to be lucky.
One day, I walked in and saw him.
He was sitting on the couch with a water bottle, sweat glistening at his temples.
He had clearly just come from a run.
Basketball shorts, old college hoodie.
The kind of casual that makes hearts race.
He looked up, startled for half a second, then smiled.
“Oh hey didn’t know you were here.”
I gave him a small wave.
“I didn’t know you’d be home.”
He patted the couch. “Come chill.”
And I did.
Carefully.
Cautiously.
Pretending like this wasn’t the closest I’d ever been to him.
Pretending like I didn’t already know the exact pattern of freckles on the side of his neck.
We started talking more.
Not just in passing. Not just as guests in the same space.
But real talking.
He asked about my school.
I asked about his job.
He told me about some guy at work who never washed his coffee mug.
I laughed like it was the funniest thing I’d heard all week.
He complimented my laugh.
Said it was “weird in a good way.”
Said it made people laugh with me.
That night, I spent hours recording myself in the mirror, trying to hear the thing he heard.
Weeks passed.
The seasons changed.
I got better at pretending I wasn’t orchestrating every encounter.
I learned his schedule.
What days he worked remotely.
What nights he was more likely to visit home.
I made sure I was there when he was.
I stopped calling it manipulation.
I started calling it timing.
Opportunity.
Fate, with a little help.
One afternoon, while helping his mom fold laundry, she looked at me and said:
“Has anyone ever told you you’d be perfect for my son?”
My heart stopped.
I laughed. Forced. “You mean… your younger one, right?”
She shook her head. “No, the older one. You’d be a breath of fresh air for him. That Aria girl broke his heart in the worst way. But you? You’re different.”
Different.
I clung to that word like it was oxygen.
But there was a threat.
Her name was Emily.
A tall, artsy girl with smudged eyeliner and sarcastic charm.
She’d known him from college. They reconnected at some neighborhood cookout and started “talking again.”
I found out from his brother.
He didn’t know I cared.
He thought we were just gossiping.
But inside? I was burning.
Emily started showing up randomly.
Dropped off books. Joined them for dinner.
Laughed loudly around his mom.
One day, I came over and she was already there.
Wearing his hoodie.
His. Hoodie.
I smiled through it.
Told myself to play the long game.
Told myself: she’s loud. She’s temporary. You are permanent.
The turning point came one weekend.
We were all in the kitchen.
His mom, Emily, his brother, and him.
It was raining outside.
Everyone was laughing, telling stories, teasing.
Emily teased me too hard.
Mocked my handwriting on a note I’d left on the fridge.
He looked at her, serious.
“That wasn’t funny,” he said.
“She was just helping.”
Emily rolled her eyes and backpedaled.
But I saw it.
The shift.
His eyes lingered on me a second longer.
Not pity.
Not amusement.
Something else.
That night, he offered to drive me home again.
We sat in the car.
Music playing low.
And for the first time ever… there was silence that didn’t feel awkward.
He looked over at me and smiled.
“Hey. I’m glad you’re always around.”
I didn’t say anything for a second.
Then quietly:
“I like being around.”
I wasn’t winning by force.
I wasn’t forcing love.
I was letting it happen.
Slowly. Gently.
Until he couldn’t tell the difference between fate… and me.