My childhood sweetheart, Jasmine, was a knockout, the kind of girl who could be a movie star. The line of guys trying to ask her out could have stretched from our front door halfway to Paris. One day, I asked her if I could cut in line. She just rolled her eyes at me and said I was insane. "Fine," I shot back, a reckless grin spreading across my face. "If I'm insane, then from this moment on, I'm going to be the psycho who personally destroys every chance you have at romance." 01 And so it began. Whenever a new suitor tried to confess his feelings to Jasmine, I'd materialize out of nowhere to sabotage them. I'd shout at the top of my lungs, "You don't want to date Jasmine! She goes weeks without showering! And she has the worst case of athlete's foot you've ever seen. The second she takes off her shoes, the stench could knock a buzzard off a garbage truck from a mile away!" Every time I pulled this stunt, Jasmine would explode. "Leo, you have a death wish!" Jasmine and I grew up together, our houses separated by a single picket fence. She was the golden child, the one all the parents in the neighborhood compared their own kids to. Not only was she stunningly beautiful, but she was also a straight-A student. The stream of admirers was endless. Every morning, the first thing she’d do upon reaching her desk was to clear out the pile of breakfast offerings—croissants, muffins, smoothies—and toss them all to me. Thanks to her popularity, I saved a fortune on food, money I promptly spent on my growing collection of trading cards. Of course, it wasn't a one-way street. I earned my keep. I'd often do her chores for her, scrubbing floors or mowing the lawn, just so she could have a quiet corner to study in peace. Sometimes, I even took the beatings meant for her. Her father was a drunk, a bitter man who’d always wanted a son. But her mother’s poor health meant Jasmine was their only child. Having a boy was out of the question. This failure, as he saw it, festered inside him. When he was drunk, he’d hit her mom. Even when he was sober, he’d find some excuse to lash out at them. His favorite line, spat out like poison, was always the same: "My life’s biggest mistake was marrying a woman who couldn’t give me a son, and ending up with a good-for-nothing girl like you who shames me in front of everyone." But Jasmine had a spine of steel. Every time he said it, she’d fire right back. "My mom is the best mom in the world, and I'm not 'good-for-nothing.' The only failure here is you—a pathetic man who gets his kicks from hitting his wife and daughter." And every time, his fists would answer her defiance. A storm of violence would follow. Her mother would always plead with her to just stay quiet. "Let it go," she'd whisper, "he'll be better once the alcohol wears off." Jasmine would never back down, wiping away tears with a furious hand. "Mom, you've been 'letting it go' for years. Has he ever gotten better? Has he ever changed?" One night, her father unbuckled his leather belt, the metal buckle glinting menacingly under the dim kitchen light. He was coming for Jasmine. Without a second thought, I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around his waist, screaming for Jasmine to run. But she stood frozen, her jaw set. "No. I'm not running. If he wants to kill me, let him try." Her father roared at me to let go, threatening to use the belt on me instead. I just held on tighter. In my world, protecting Jasmine was the only thing that mattered. The first lash of the belt bit into my back, sharp and searing. I cried out as angry, red welts rose on my skin, but I didn't let go. The nightmare only ended when my own parents burst in, drawn by the commotion. Later, as my mom gently applied ointment to my back, she sighed. "Leo, you don't have a lick of sense, do you? When someone's coming at you with a belt, you run." "I couldn't," I mumbled into my pillow. "If I ran, what would've happened to Jasmine?" My mom’s voice softened. "Oh, you little rascal. I know you like her. But couldn't you have grabbed her and run together?" My face burned hot. "I don't like her like that! I just… I couldn't stand seeing her get hurt." But she never blamed me for getting beaten for Jasmine's sake. In fact, her heart broke for that girl. Whenever Jasmine came over to do homework, my mom would see the bruises peeking out from under her sleeves and her voice would crack. "Honey, does it hurt?" Jasmine would always put on a brave face. "It's nothing, Mrs. Gable. I'm fine." My mom would tend to her cuts and bruises, tears welling in her own eyes. But this was the nineties. In our small town, women didn't have much of a voice. The word "divorce" was spoken in hushed, scandalized tones, as if it were a mortal sin. 02 Jasmine once begged her mom to leave him. To file for divorce. Her mother reacted with fury, slapping Jasmine across the face. "Are you trying to turn me into a shameless hussy? A disgrace?" Jasmine had endured countless beatings from that man without shedding a tear. But that one slap from her own mother broke her. The tears finally came, silent and bitter. After that day, she never mentioned divorce again. She stopped talking about how pitiful her mother was, or how unlucky her life had been. When it came time for college, Jasmine chose a school a thousand miles away, effectively cutting off all contact with her family. She paid her way with scholarships and a string of part-time jobs. She never came home for holidays, choosing instead to work and save money. My mom, worried sick about her, would always slip me extra cash. "Take care of Jasmine for me, Leo. That girl has it rough." College changed Jasmine. Her natural radiance was replaced by a cool, melancholic air. There was a distance in her clear, guarded eyes that kept everyone at arm's length. She was still breathtakingly beautiful—tall and graceful, with delicate features that could make the world fade into the background just by sitting still. On the university's online forum, a "Campus Queen" poll made her the undisputed winner by a landslide. The line of guys trying to win her over was longer than ever. I could have funded a week's worth of pizza just by selling the love letters she received as scrap paper. Since everyone on campus knew we were close—and had confirmed we weren't a couple—I became the unofficial gatekeeper. Until that one fateful day, when I asked her, "Can I cut in line?" She gave me a long, searching look before declaring, "You're insane." And that’s when my new mission began. Anyone who came to me asking for her number got the same story: "Jasmine has a terrible case of athlete's foot and rarely showers. The smell is… legendary. It’s incurable. Whoever ends up with her is in for a lifetime of misery." The rumor worked like a charm. The flood of suitors dwindled to a trickle, and for a while, Jasmine seemed to enjoy the peace and quiet. But then, a post exploded on the campus forum. It detailed Jasmine's tragic backstory: the alcoholic, abusive father; the constant fighting; the miserable childhood. It painted her as a brave, resilient girl who was putting herself through college all alone. The post went viral, shooting to the top of the forum's hot list. Suddenly, my "athlete's foot" rumor was forgotten. A wave of misplaced chivalry swept across campus. The number of guys pursuing her became a veritable army. Her dorm hallway was constantly clogged with guys offering to fetch her water, save her a seat in the library, or just straight-up hand her cash. Overwhelmed and furious, Jasmine finally snapped. She issued a campus-wide manhunt for me. She was convinced I had leaked her secrets. And I knew she wouldn't let it go. Growing up, Jasmine was the undisputed leader of the neighborhood kids. Anyone who crossed her learned their lesson the hard way. 03 I've lived under the shadow of Jasmine's "tyranny" my whole life. The second I heard about the manhunt, my first instinct was to hide. But I had severely underestimated her influence on campus. I thought I'd be safe in the all-male dorms, but I was wrong. Her legion of "suitors," eager to curry favor, stormed my dorm and dragged me out like a prisoner of war. They shoved me in front of her, each of them preening like they'd just slain a dragon for their queen. Jasmine dismissed them with a wave and then grabbed my ear, parading me across the main lawn for all to see. She hauled me to a secluded spot behind the library and ordered me to get on my knees and apologize. "Jasmine, I swear on my life, you've got the wrong guy," I pleaded. "I didn't post that." She stared at me, her eyes like chips of ice. "Do you really expect me to believe you, Leo? We're a thousand miles from home. Who else here knows about my family? It was you. It had to be you." "It wasn't!" I insisted, desperation creeping into my voice. I had no way to prove it. She was right; I was the only one here who knew her secrets. I had followed her to this freezing northern city, a fact my mom loved to tease me about. "You wouldn't have moved so far from our sunny little southern town if it wasn't for Jasmine, you little rascal." "Then who was it? Did you tell someone else about me?" she demanded. I knew how private she was. People had asked, but I’d never breathed a word. "No, Jasmine. I swear. I didn't post it, and I've never told anyone your story." Her expression shifted, a flicker of deep-seated hurt crossing her face. "Why should I believe you? I remember when we were kids. You sold out my hiding spot during a game of hide-and-seek for a single piece of candy. Why wouldn't you sell my secrets now for a bit of attention or a few bucks?" Her words were a punch to the gut. That memory, twisted and ugly in her retelling, stabbed at me. She had been the hide-and-seek champion. No one could ever find her. But I knew her tells, her favorite spots. I could always track her down. One time, another kid offered me a piece of candy if I revealed her location. What she never knew was that it was a White Rabbit creamy candy, her absolute favorite. I’d betrayed her for it, and the guilt had eaten at me. She was so mad she refused to speak to me for days. I held onto that candy, waiting for the right moment. Later that week, on a bright, sunny afternoon while we were perched on the branch of an old oak tree, I gave it to her as a surprise. Her face lit up with a pure, unadulterated joy that made my own heart swell. She carefully smoothed out the edible rice paper wrapper and handed it to me. "Here," she said, "you keep this for me." I treasured that little piece of paper for years. But now, she was using that memory as a weapon against me. The pain was sharp and real. "Jasmine, you really don't believe me?" I asked, looking up at her. Her eyes suddenly welled up, turning red at the rims. "Leo, this is the one thing I hate more than anything. I don't need anyone's pity. Not then, not now, and not ever. This time, you've really, truly crossed a line." 04 With that, she turned and walked away without a backward glance. I watched her go, every instinct screaming at me to run after her, to make her understand. But my feet felt like they were nailed to the ground. She was too angry. Chasing her now would be useless. The only thing I could do was find the person who really wrote that post. My heart heavy, I trudged back to my dorm. I pulled up the forum on my computer and found the post. The user ID was deceptively simple: "A Classmate." A surge of anger shot through me. It was obviously a setup, designed to point the finger directly at me. It had to be one of my "rivals," some coward trying to win Jasmine over by playing dirty. The post had thousands of replies. I sent a private message to the original poster, asking to meet, but my message vanished into the digital void. I posted public replies, demanding they show themselves, but "A Classmate" remained silent. I knew I couldn't let this fester. I had to talk to Jasmine. But she was ghosting me completely. Her roommates, who had apparently heard the "official" story, now gave me the cold shoulder, muttering about what a jerk I was. The weight of being falsely accused was crushing. The more it hurt, the more determined I became to prove my innocence. I spent days lurking outside her dorm, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she never appeared. Then, one day, a package arrived from my mom. It was filled with homemade specialties from our hometown, treats you couldn't find anywhere in this cold northern city. My first thought was to share them with Jasmine. I sent her a text. Your favorite snacks from my mom just arrived. The message went unanswered. When she sent the package, my mom's instructions were clear: "Make sure Jasmine gets some." With no other option, I carried the box of food to her dorm, planning to ask her roommate to take it up. As I approached the building, my heart sank. There she was, standing near the entrance, but she wasn't alone. She was with a guy. And not just any guy. It was Ethan Vance, the student council president and the forum's officially elected "Campus Heartthrob." I watched, paralyzed, as he gently wrapped a scarf around her neck. She didn't pull away. Standing together, they looked like a perfect couple from a magazine cover. Next to a guy like Ethan, I felt like a cheap knock-off. He wasn't just tall and handsome; he was a top student, charismatic, and everyone knew his family was loaded. If Jasmine were with him, she'd be taken care of. She'd be safe. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was time for me to finally bow out. A bitter wave of disappointment washed over me. I turned to leave. "Leo, stop right there." The voice cut through the air, and I froze.
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