𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𓂃⋆.˚ 𝐒.𝐇

F O U R T E E N

🧇🔦🚲📺

Ana shut the front door quietly behind her, the familiar creak of its hinges echoing in the stillness of the house. She leaned against it for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath. The evening with Steve had been perfect—too perfect. Her chest felt heavy, a strange mixture of exhilaration and unease pressing down on her.

As she walked to her room, the quiet seemed deafening, amplifying the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. Her fingers brushed the walls, her steps light out of habit, but inside she felt anything but steady.

The small sanctuary of her bedroom greeted her with its usual coziness: pale blue walls adorned with posters, shelves stacked with books, and a warm quilt draped over her bed. Ana dropped her bag onto the floor and stood there for a moment, staring at the space as if it held the answers to her tumultuous emotions.

But it didn't.

Her gaze fell to the wooden floor near her bed—a specific panel that was slightly lighter than the others, almost imperceptibly out of place. She moved toward it on instinct, kneeling down and prying it open with practiced ease.

Beneath the panel lay her diary, its soft leather cover worn from years of use. This was her secret place, the one corner of the world where she could let the storm in her head spill out in ink without fear of judgment.

She settled onto her bed, cross-legged, the diary open on her lap. Her pen hovered above the page for a moment, her thoughts too tangled to form coherent sentences.

"It's a crush," Joyce's voice whispered in her memory, unbidden. Ana shook her head, pushing the thought aside, but it clawed its way back, relentless.

With a resigned sigh, she began to write.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Dear Diary,

I don't even know where to start tonight. My mind is a mess, and writing usually helps, but this feels like trying to untangle a knot that just keeps getting tighter.

So, Steve. That's what this is about. Who this is about? I'm not even sure how it got to this point. A few weeks ago, he was just... Steve. The guy who needed help with his homework. The guy who made dumb jokes and got easily distracted during our study sessions. But now... I don't know.

Tonight was different. He danced with me. He made me laugh so much I thought my sides would split. And when he looked at me... It was like he saw me. Not just the girl who tutors him, but me.

But I can't be reading into this. I won't. He's Steve Harrington. He has Nancy. And even if he didn't, what would he see in me?

🧇🔦🚲📺

Ana paused, her pen hovering over the page. Her breath hitched as she reread her words. It felt dangerous to admit these thoughts, even here, where no one else would ever see them. But the words were out now, etched into the page, impossible to take back.

She pressed the pen back to the paper, her grip tightening as her emotions bubbled to the surface.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Joyce says it's a crush. I can't stop hearing her say that. But it doesn't feel like a crush. Crushes are supposed to be light and fun, right? This feels... heavy. Like it's sinking into my bones and taking up space where it doesn't belong.

And it's not just the way he smiles or the way his hair always looks like he just rolled out of bed. It's the little things. The way he listens, even when he pretends not to care. The way he doesn't laugh at me when I get nervous or stumble over my words.

But none of that matters. It doesn't change the fact that he's with Nancy. That he's way out of my league. And even if none of that were true, I can't let myself feel this way. It's stupid. It's impossible.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Ana dropped the pen, her chest tight. She leaned back against the headboard, her diary still open on her lap. Her fingers brushed the edges of the pages, but she couldn't bring herself to keep writing.

Her mind reeled with memories of the evening—the way Steve had pulled her into the dance, the warmth of his hand against hers, the way he had looked at her during "Every Breath You Take." She shook her head fiercely, trying to dispel the images.

It doesn't mean anything, she told herself. He's just being Steve. Friendly, goofy Steve. That's all it is.

But even as she thought it, a part of her didn't believe it.

Ana sat there for what felt like hours, the room growing darker as the sun dipped below the horizon. Shadows crept across her walls, and the cool night air seeped in through the cracks in the windowpane.

Eventually, she picked up her pen again, unable to leave her thoughts unfinished.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Maybe Joyce is right. Maybe this is a crush. But what am I supposed to do with that? I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone. Not even myself, really.

Because the truth is, even if I wanted to admit it—even if I wanted to believe there was the tiniest chance he could ever feel the same—it wouldn't change anything.

He's Nancy's. And I'm... me.

So I'll just have to bury this. Push it down until it disappears.

Maybe if I write it all out, I can get it out of my system. Maybe then it won't feel so real.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Ana stopped again, her heart aching with the weight of her own words. Her chest felt tight, and she realized she had been holding her breath. She exhaled shakily, closing the diary and running her fingers over its worn cover.

This was her secret, and it would stay that way. She would lock it away in the pages of her diary, hidden under the floorboard, and pretend it didn't exist.

But even as she told herself that, a part of her knew it wouldn't be so easy.

🧇🔦🚲📺

Ana returned the diary to its hiding place and slid the floor panel back into place, making sure it was secure. She climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin as she stared at the ceiling.

Her mind was still racing, replaying every moment of the evening, every word and look and laugh. She thought about the way Steve had admired her music, the way he had danced with her without hesitation, the way he had made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

And she thought about Joyce's words, how they had struck a chord she hadn't been ready to acknowledge.

"It's a crush."

Ana closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but the war in her head raged on. Part of her wanted to believe Joyce was right, to let herself feel the hope that came with it. But the other part—the louder, more insistent part—told her it was foolish, that she was setting herself up for heartbreak.

In the quiet of her room, with nothing but the hum of the night outside, Ana felt small and uncertain. She had always been good at keeping her feelings in check, at staying in the background and not making waves. But this... this was different.

She didn't know how to fight it.

And as she lay there, staring into the darkness, she realized she wasn't sure she wanted to do.

🧇🔦🚲📺