Chapter 1: Heartthrob With a Secret

Disguised as a guy in what basically feels like a typical high school drama—where the dudes always get the spotlight—I end up relying on livestream comments just to carve out my own little corner as the campus heartthrob.

Honestly, it’s not like I ever meant to become the center of attention. But when you’ve got a peanut gallery narrating your every move, it’s hard not to play along—I mean, even if it’s just for the laughs. Sometimes I wonder if they even realize I can see them. Guess not.

When the main couple fights and the heroine gets caught in a downpour, I hand her an umbrella.

I mean, who could just walk by? The sky’s dumping buckets, and she’s standing there, mascara streaking down, hair plastered to her cheeks. It’s the kind of moment straight out of an old John Hughes movie—except, let’s be real, nobody’s holding a boombox over their head blasting Peter Gabriel. Still, I guess it’s my cue. So I step in, umbrella in hand, not that I’m trying to be some melodramatic knight in shining armor or anything.

When they’re giving each other the silent treatment and she’s left alone, I step up to protect her.

It’s not about playing hero. It’s just, in a place where everyone’s got their own cliques and drama, sometimes a little kindness stands out like a neon OPEN sign at midnight. Call it a flaw, I guess—I just can’t walk away when someone’s left out in the cold, literally or otherwise.

When the male lead snaps and trashes her with words he doesn’t mean, I do everything I can to comfort her and boost her confidence.

Sometimes, I wish I could just shake Jason by the shoulders and yell, “Dude, get it together!” Trust me, I want to. But since that’s not how these stories go, I settle for picking up the pieces after he’s done. There’s something about the way Charlotte’s eyes go glassy that makes me want to punch a wall—and then do whatever it takes to make her laugh, just to see her smile again.

Until she starts looking at me with this weird, searching expression—and the male lead finally storms over, fuming.

It’s that look, you know? Like she’s peering straight through me. Trying to figure out a puzzle she didn’t know she was solving. And right when I’m about to ask if I’ve got something on my face, here comes Jason, all bluster and bravado, like he’s about to challenge me to a duel in the cafeteria.

"You jerk. So it’s you trying to steal my girl."

I sigh, hands shoved in my pockets.

"Even before people called it 'hitting on girls,' I figured being able to read what a girl’s feeling was kind of a gift."

I let the words hang in the air, my voice low but steady. The cafeteria’s buzzing with energy, but for a second, it’s like everything freezes. There’s a kind of raw honesty in moments like these—when you’re not hiding behind a joke or a smirk, just saying what you mean.

"Sorry, I just can’t do the kind of stuff you do that makes girls cry."

A couple heads swivel our way. Someone’s phone camera is probably already rolling. But honestly, I don’t care. If calling him out means Charlotte doesn’t have to cry herself to sleep tonight, then so be it.

The comments light up: "If flirting is a superpower, then Riley Brooks is a total legend!" "Seriously, teach us your ways, king!"

I can almost hear the collective gasp from my invisible audience, like they’re watching a live taping of some reality show. The words scroll by in neon: ‘Legend,’ ‘heartthrob,’ ‘smooth operator.’ I roll my eyes—if only they knew what it’s really like.

After accidentally falling into the lake, I woke up able to see the comments.

Yeah, you read that right. I know, wild, right? One minute I’m minding my own business, the next I’m soaking wet and suddenly everyone’s inner thoughts are streaming past my eyeballs like a never-ending TikTok feed. It’s weirdly comforting, though—like having a crowd of rowdy cousins at Thanksgiving, always ready with an opinion.

I’m Riley Brooks, a nobody side character in a massive male-centric high school drama.

I mean, if you looked up ‘background character’ in the yearbook, you’d probably see my face. Probably right next to the lunch menu. The kind of person who’s always there, but never quite in focus. Still, I’ve learned that sometimes the side characters get the best lines.

In this world, Jason Miller comes from nothing, but the rich girl Charlotte Sterling is head over heels for him.

It’s classic, right? The guy from the wrong side of the tracks, the girl with a trust fund and a smile that could stop traffic. The kind of pairing that makes grandmas sigh and guidance counselors shake their heads.

Because of their class divide, they fall in love, break up, and their emotional rollercoaster torments the audience nine hundred and ninety-nine times—until the male lead finally gets both the girl and his dream job.

If I had a dollar for every time they broke up and made up, I could probably buy my own coffee shop. But that’s just how these stories go—over and over, like that one Taylor Swift song stuck on repeat.

Right now, it’s pouring rain.

The kind of rain that soaks you to the bone in thirty seconds flat. My sneakers are already squelching, and the campus sidewalks look like rivers. Somewhere, a janitor is probably cursing under his breath about muddy footprints.

I come out of the library and spot the main couple arguing under the maple trees.

They’re standing right in the thick of it, leaves dripping, voices rising above the drumming rain. It’s cinematic as hell—I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing. Me? I’m mostly wondering if my backpack is waterproof.

Jason storms off, not even glancing back, leaving Charlotte standing there alone.

He’s got that look—jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. Doesn’t even toss her a backward glance. Charlotte’s just left there, hugging herself, rain running down her arms like she’s in the world’s saddest Taylor Swift music video. Honestly, all that’s missing is a slow-mo montage.

The comments are flying in: "He has no choice. The male lead just found out she’s the Sterling heiress. As the son of a housekeeper, how could he ever go after a girl like her? He can only dump her hard."

I snort. The audience always has a reason, don’t they? Like the universe handed out a script and everyone’s just reading their lines. Still, there’s a weird comfort in knowing people are out there, rooting for or against you.

"Ugh, I feel so bad for Jason, his eyes are totally red."

Somebody always sides with the underdog, even when he’s being a jerk. I guess that’s the American way—root for the scrappy kid, even when he’s got no clue.

"He’s going to regret this. The heroine’s on her period, and after this rain she’ll get super sick, and have cramps forever."

Cramps? Seriously? That’s a new one. The things people come up with in the comments section never fail to amaze me. Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of worry for Charlotte. She looks like she could use a warm blanket and a hug, not a lecture.

I frown, watching the pale girl shivering in the rain.

The sight tugs at something inside me. Maybe it’s empathy, maybe it’s just that I know what it’s like to be left out in the cold. Either way, I can’t just stand here and do nothing.

Almost without thinking, I walk over to her with my umbrella.

It’s not a grand gesture—just a quiet offer, a little patch of shelter in a storm. My hands are shaking a little, but I hope she doesn’t notice. The rain drums on the nylon, and for a moment, the world feels a little smaller, a little safer. I see her glance up, hope flickering in her eyes.

"Whoa, where did this guy come from? Just in time—the heroine’s freezing."

The comment makes me smile. Sometimes, the audience gets it right. Timing really is everything.

Charlotte notices me, too.

She blinks, raindrops clinging to her lashes, and for a second, I wonder if she recognizes me at all. There’s a beat where she looks like she might say something, but the words catch in her throat.

She looks up, startled, about to say my name.

But I’m way too much of a background character, so after hesitating, she just calls me class president. Ouch. That stings.

I nod and lead her to the coffee shop on the corner.

The bell above the door jingles as we step inside, the smell of fresh espresso wrapping around us like the first sip of a pumpkin spice latte in October. It’s cozy and a little cramped, with mismatched chairs and indie music humming from the speakers. I guide her to a booth by the window, out of the rain and into the soft glow of string lights.

First, I call Charlotte’s parents and ask them to pick her up.

It’s the responsible thing to do, and honestly, it gives me a chance to catch my breath. I keep my voice steady, letting her parents know she’s safe and dry. There’s a weird comfort in doing the grown-up thing—makes me feel less like a side character, more like someone who matters.

Then I ask the barista to make her a cup of hot chocolate, and drape my dry hoodie over her shoulders.

The hoodie’s oversized, sleeves swallowing her hands. Classic move, right? She looks even smaller now, but there’s a hint of color returning to her cheeks. The barista gives me a knowing smile as she whips up the cocoa, extra marshmallows on the side.

She doesn’t say a word, just keeps crying.

The tears are silent, but heavy. I sit across from her, not sure what to do with my hands. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is just be there, no words needed. So that’s what I do.

I know why.

Jason said a bunch of harsh stuff to end things, and she feels terrible.

It’s the kind of heartbreak that makes you question everything—like maybe you’re not enough, or maybe you never were. I remember feeling that way once, and it sucks. No one deserves to be left out in the rain, literally or figuratively.

I can’t stand to see her cry like that, so I rack my brain and tell a few corny jokes.

They’re the kind of jokes that make dads proud and teenagers groan. But right now, anything that might lift the weight off her chest is worth a shot. I even toss in a bad pun about the weather, hoping for a smile.

Charlotte doesn’t laugh at the jokes, but she does smile at how serious I am.

There it is—the tiniest curve of her lips, like a sliver of sunshine peeking through storm clouds. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make my heart do a little flip.

"Thank you, class president. I’ll be okay."

She says it soft, but there’s a strength behind the words. I nod, trying not to look too relieved. Sometimes, just knowing someone’s in your corner makes all the difference.

Seeing her smile, I breathe a sigh of relief and nudge the hot chocolate toward her.

"Drink something warm, it’ll help."

It’s an old trick—my mom used to swear by it. Something about chocolate and marshmallows melting the worst days away. I watch as Charlotte wraps her hands around the mug, steam curling up into the air.

Charlotte hesitates, but takes a sip.

She makes a face, like it’s too bitter or maybe too hot. Guess I underdid the sugar. I chuckle, reaching for the marshmallows.

Before she can grimace at the taste, I instinctively hand her a marshmallow.

"Here—sweeten it up."

I say it softly, setting the marshmallow on the rim of her cup. My fingers brush hers, and for a split second, the world tilts on its axis.

Charlotte freezes.

She goes still, eyes wide. There’s a question in her gaze, something unspoken and electric. My heart thuds, but I play it cool, pretending it’s no big deal.

The comments explode.

"Wait, what is this guy doing? Is he hitting on the male lead’s girl?"

"Such a smooth move, his intentions are so obvious!"

I frown, not really getting the comments.

Sometimes I wish I could reach through the screen and explain myself. But that’s not how this works. The crowd always wants drama, even when there’s none to be found.

But I honestly wasn’t hitting on her.

Seriously.

For reasons out of my control, my family always raised me as a boy.

It’s complicated, okay? Not exactly something I bring up at parties. But growing up, I learned to keep my head down and blend in. It’s easier that way, especially when the world expects you to play a part.

But just like the heroine, I’m actually a girl, too.

And because I’m a girl, I can’t stand to see other girls get hurt.

It’s a kind of sisterhood, even if nobody else knows. When you’ve been on the receiving end of cold shoulders and cruel words, you learn to spot the signs in others. Maybe that’s why I care so much.

The hot chocolate with marshmallow is just a trick my mom taught me.

She used to say, “Never underestimate the healing power of chocolate and a little kindness.” Turns out, she was right. Some things are universal—like comfort food and a shoulder to cry on. And maybe a little Netflix binge.

Ever since I woke up, I just can’t buy into the script of this world.

The rules here feel so rigid, like someone drew them in permanent marker. But I’ve never been good at coloring inside the lines. If the story says I’m supposed to stand by and watch, well—too bad.

Why does the heiress have to chase after the broke guy?

Why does she have to get dragged through the mud by him?

Why does she have to give up everything for his dreams?

This kind of ridiculous, brainless male-centric drama... I mean, come on.

It’s like getting stomped by a size 13 muddy boot—then snorting Gatorade up your nose right before you black out.

What "perfect wife supports my ambition"? What a joke. Yeah, right. If you need help, call social services.

Honestly, there’s a whole world out there beyond this soap opera. If you’re in trouble, there’s always someone you can call. No need to play the martyr for someone else’s story.

Luckily, Charlotte doesn’t seem to mind what I did.

To thank me, she even Venmo’d me a gift card the next day.

It’s a Starbucks card, digital confetti popping up on my phone. I laugh, texting her a quick thanks. She sends back a smiley face and a heart, and for a second, the day feels a little brighter.