Chapter 2When Her Best Friend Chose Me

Before I could even figure out how to pull that splinter out, the ghost from Hannah’s past materialized.

His name was Oliver.

The news of his transfer back to Waverly University tore through the campus community boards like wildfire.

The thread titles were dripping with clickbait:

"Architecture department golden girl Hannah’s high school crush returns."

"Oliver vs. Adam: Side-by-side comparison. Are they the exact same type?"

"Yikes… is the current boyfriend really just a budget knockoff?"

My fingers turned numb as I scrolled through the posts.

In the photos, Oliver wore an oversized heather-grey hoodie, standing at the base of the music conservatory steps with an acoustic guitar slung over one shoulder. Pale, lithe, with a delicate, unbothered smile that seemed to look right through the lens.

He didn't look identical to me, but there was an unsettling truth to the comments: the slope of his brow, the slight, hooded droop of his eyes when he looked downward—it was an unmistakable echo of my own face.

The comment section was even more merciless:

"Everyone from Crestmont High knows Hannah chased Oliver for two straight years."

"Remember when she stood outside his dorm in the pouring rain with his competition blueprints?"

"Makes sense why she fell for Adam. If you can’t get the original vintage, you buy the reproduction."

"Poor Adam. The real thing is back in town. Time for the understudy to pack his bags."

I stared at the word "understudy" until my vision blurred and a cold, acidic knot formed in my stomach.

That night, Hannah came to my art studio. I slid my unlocked phone across the drafting table.

"Is this true?"

She skimmed the screen, the color draining from her cheeks. "I did have a thing for him in high school, Adam."

My chest contracted.

"That was years ago," she added immediately, stepping forward to catch my hand. "We haven't spoken since graduation. It’s over."

"Do I look like him, Hannah?"

She froze.

It was only a fraction of a second, but that beat of hesitation shattered whatever flimsy self-assurance I had left.

"You’re Adam," she said quickly, squeezing my fingers. "He’s Oliver. Don't listen to a bunch of faceless trolls on the internet."

She said the right words, but she hadn't said "no".

In love, it isn't the rejection that kills you. It’s the split second of doubt before the reassurance.

The following afternoon, I ran into Oliver outside the central library.

He was surrounded by a small entourage, including Bryce, a guy from the student arts council who ran one of the anonymous campus gossip handles.

When Oliver caught sight of me, his lips parted into an easy, disarming smile.

"You must be Adam."

His voice was soft, melodic, dripping with quiet refinement.

"Hannah’s mentioned you."

"Hey," I said, keeping my hands buried in my coat pockets.

He looked me over—not with open hostility, but with the patronizing fondness of a mentor assessing a novice.

Then he drove the needle in.

"You're very handsome," he said smoothly. "I can see why she likes you. Girls always have such persistent patterns in their aesthetic taste, don't they?"

Bryce snickered behind his hand.

I met Oliver’s gaze. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Oliver didn't blink. "Don't take it the wrong way. It’s a compliment." He brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "I just think it’s endearing how consistent her type has stayed all these years."

In that moment, I understood what it meant to be stabbed with a velvet blade. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't uttered a single slur. Yet every syllable had been carefully chosen to remind me: "You are not a person to her. You are an echo."

Back in my dorm, my phone buzzed. A text from Drew:

"Stay off the forums. Half the people posting have lead poisoning."

I stared at his contact icon, my jaw clenching. "Now you want to play the supportive buddy?"

I texted back: "Mind your own business."

He replied in seconds: "Fine by me."

Then, two minutes later, another message popped up:

"Just saying—Oliver isn't the choir boy he pretends to be. Watch your back."

I didn't reply. I tossed the phone onto my mattress, irritated by his sudden concern. A guy who stole my front seat every weekend had no right to warn me about someone else crossing boundaries.