I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey. We need to talk about what I saw tonight.”
“You’re Kenzie Love,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t beg. You don’t chase. You feel things, but you don’t let them drown you.” kenzie love pov
It’s a lie. I am drowning. But I’m also stubborn. I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey
Too confrontational. Delete. “Are you okay? You seemed… distracted.” Too passive. Delete. “I think I’m in love with you and it’s making me stupid.” You don’t chase
My name is Kenzie Love, and I have spent my entire life trying to live up to my surname.
I grab my phone, shove it into my back pocket, and open the bathroom door. The hallway smells like cheap vanilla candles and expensive regret. I walk toward the stairs, toward the noise, toward E. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know if I’ll say anything at all.
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.