Hayden Grahm.
Two words. Four syllables. And somehow, when said together, they rang sweeter than any love song ever written. It was absurd, really. How could a name make your stomach flip like pages in the wind? And yet, there it was—Hayden Michael Grahm—echoing like some forbidden incantation in the cathedral of my mind.
He''s only lived here for two months.
Fourteen days though, was all it took for him to become a legend.
Now, there he was, sweat-slick and golden beneath the late afternoon sun, a living sculpture carved in bronze, sprinting along the track like some Grecian deity reincarnated in Nike trainers. His honey-brown skin glistened, each sinew of muscle shifting under taut flesh with mesmerizing precision. He was taller than the rest of the guys, broader too—shoulders like armor, stride like thunder. The other runners trailed behind him like loose threads unraveling from a worn-out dream, struggling to keep up.
Chris and Jordan—decent enough in their own right—howled with laughter before launching themselves onto Hayden's back like toddlers desperate for attention. The three of them collapsed in a tangle of limbs and triumphant chaos, a thunderous echo reverberating off the bleachers. I gasped so sharply I half expected the earth to open beneath my feet.
Or maybe it was just my heart, threatening to claw its way through my ribs.
Hayden wasn't just popular—he was magnetic. He could shift between friend groups with the grace of a ballroom dancer switching partners mid-waltz. He was varsity athlete one moment, theater kid the next. Artists adored him. Nerds respected him. Even the administration seemed incapable of disliking him. He wasn't just admired; he was beloved. Not in the way celebrities are loved from afar, but in the way folklore lingers in small towns—something you never quite believe until you've seen it with your own eyes.
"You're wayyyyy out of your league, Carlie." came the voice of Miranda, my best friend and unrepentant breaker of illusions. She stretched the "way" into something dramatic and theatrical, as if it needed to be twelve letters long. Miranda always had a knack for dousing my fantasies in the cold water of reality.
"You could try to sugarcoat it sometime," I muttered, though my lips curled into a reluctant smile.
She shrugged, unapologetic. "If I did, you might actually believe you have a chance."
I rolled my eyes and twirled the handle of my badminton racket between my palms like a magician stalling before a trick. Just a gym class, I reminded myself. Just an elective. But the sight of Hayden—now upright again and laughing, the wind tousling his chestnut locks as though nature itself wanted to touch him—made it anything but ordinary.
The birdie sailed between us with a sad little thud as it bounced off my racket and hit the floor for the third time in as many minutes. Coordination, apparently, had declined my invitation to attend.
"Ugh," I groaned, bending to retrieve it.
"Maybe he likes klutzy girls with bad aim," Miranda teased.
"Right. And maybe I'm secretly a unicorn in disguise."
"Oh my gosh. Don't look. But Hayden is staring at you."
My heart stopped. No—it didn't just stop. It trembled.
"You're kidding."
"Would I joke about that?"
I dared a glance. There he was, across the field, his storm-gray eyes fixed in our direction. A soft smile played on his lips—not mocking, not smirking. Just... calm. Curious.
I immediately looked away, my cheeks flaming. "He was probably looking at you."
Miranda scoffed. "Please. I eat cereal straight from the box. You, on the other hand, have the tragic mystery thing going for you."
"Oh yes," I muttered. "That's what every guy dreams about—tragic mystery."
Truthfully, I hated gym class. I hated running, hated sweating, hated the oversized t-shirt clinging to my body and revealing every flaw I tried so hard to hide. Being overweight in high school was like walking through a minefield blindfolded—each step a gamble. Maybe that was why I never tried out for sports. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, the cycle spun endlessly.
But Hayden…
He'd come from Edinburgh, Scotland. Scotland. It sounded romantic even in my head. I could almost hear it laced with kilts and castles and fog-drenched hills. My grandmother was Scottish, had a thick brogue and a proud love of Celtic folklore. I should have said something to him, struck up a conversation. We have something in common, I could've said. Isn't that rare? Isn't that worth noticing?
But of course I didn't. I just watched.
Like I always did.
Each lap he ran, I tracked with my eyes. With every stride, my heart kept time—thump, thump, thump—like it was trying to match his rhythm. A foolish thought crossed my mind.
I want him.
And then another: I'll never have him.
Some part of me had already made peace with that truth, signed it in ink and tucked it away in the dusty drawer labeled "Unrealistic Dreams." That drawer was filled with other impossible things: becoming a profesional painter, owning a castle, kissing someone under a foreign sky.
Hayden didn't belong in my world. He belonged to the sunlit parts of high school—the loud laughter and open locker doors, the Friday night lights and Instagram filters. I lived in the margins, in the shadows between sentences.
And yet… when our eyes met again, something happened.
A chill skated down my spine, soft as a breath but undeniable. The hairs on my neck stood upright, and for a fleeting second, I swear Hayden felt it too. He blinked, faltered, and for the smallest instant, I saw confusion flicker in his gaze. Then he smiled, shook his head, and turned away.
I exhaled a laugh. Stop being ridiculous, I told myself. This isn't a movie.
But it sure felt like one.
After the bell, I changed into my regular clothes, zombie-walked through my last class, and watched the clock like it held the key to freedom. When it finally struck three, the halls exploded with noise—locker doors slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising in a chaotic chorus of escape.
I let the tide carry me to the lot and ducked into my silver Ford Contour parked behind the theater wing. I dropped into the driver's seat and closed my eyes. The leather was hot beneath me, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made you feel like you were melting. I turned on the radio, let some soft indie track flood the car, and waited for the chaos to die down.
I always waited. I never liked the rush.
Eventually, the lot emptied, and I rolled out slowly, coasting down the back road that wrapped around the manmade lake near campus. No one else drove this way— inter-district transfer perks. It was my time, my silence, my chance to think.
As I turned onto my street, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. Windblown auburn hair. Slightly flushed cheeks. Eyes still too close together.
He looked at me.
And I smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
Maybe today wasn't so ordinary after all.