"Did it hurt?"
I was in too much pain to get a word out.
After a bit, the motorcycle pulled over to the side of the road. Jonah took off his helmet and, seeing my tears, got even more flustered. "Where did you get hit just now?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It was like someone had stripped away my defenses, leaving me raw and vulnerable. A sudden wave of embarrassment and sensitivity washed over me.
His voice grew more urgent. "Talk to me."
His intense gaze felt like it was putting me on the spot, like I was being roasted over a fire.
A flush crept up my cheeks. I closed my eyes and, in a moment of desperation, blurted out, "My chest! I hit my chest, alright?"
He was taken aback, realizing something, and silently turned away, putting his helmet back on.
In an awkward tone, he mumbled, "Uh, I didn't mean to."
For the rest of the ride, I learned my lesson and held on tight to his waist. But maybe it was the heat because my arms felt like they were in an oven.
At West High, a prestigious school that drew top students from everywhere, people cared more about who excelled in academics than forming cliques or bullying.
Here, no one bullied or isolated me. I was just another student with a couple of friends to hang out with, and I got along well with my roommates. We’d occasionally gossip, and early romances were always a hot topic.
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