She dumped me. Can’t believe it. Didn’t even do it herself. She sent Hayley Baker over during break. ‘You’re dumped,’ she said. Just that. Hate her. Hate them both.

‘What are you reading?’ Vicky asks, her eyes on the TV as she lies beside me on the sofa.

‘Nothing. Just my diary from…’ I look at the cover. ‘1994.’

‘Fun,’ she says. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. ‘Any good?’

‘Not really. Just teenage angst.’

She’ll regret this. When I’m famous and I’ve got my own car and a pool in my mansion. Then she’ll be sorry. Or if I died. Yeah, she’d cry then. Probably.

The pen marks are deep, ripping through in places. A forensic exam might even show tears fell here, hot and angry.

I can’t just let this happen. I have to do something.

Please don’t, I say to myself. The inevitability hurts – like watching the captain of the Titanic order ‘full speed ahead’.

I love her. I can’t stop. But how do I get her back? I need a plan. I could tell her I love her in front of the whole school. They do that in movies. Would it work in real life?

No.

Tried to talk to her in PE. She ignored me. Hayley said ‘leave her alone’, like I’m a psycho. If anything Hayley’s the psycho – she told everyone she snogged Ben Potter last year and we all know she didn’t.

Vicky’s head is resting on my shoulder, but she shifts to see the diary. I close it.

‘Oh come on,’ she says. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘It can.’

‘Oh please,’ she says, cuddling closer. ‘It’s been a long day. I need a laugh.’

I sigh and open it. We read together.

Been up all night. Just lay here at first, thinking. Really wanted to call her, but what if her parents answered? You can’t go calling people at three in the morning. Then I had a better idea. I’ve written a letter. Took me hours. Kept ripping it up, but I think I’ve got it perfect now. I’m taking it to school.

I groan.

Vicky giggles. ‘This is much better than TV,’ she says, switching it off.

I close the diary again.

‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ she says. ‘You can’t leave it on a cliff-hanger.’

I take a very deep breath. ‘Just remember I was only fourteen.’

I carried the letter all day. She acted like she couldn’t see me. Her friends kept getting in the way – blocking like bodyguards. Last period was maths. I had to give her the letter. Couldn’t face another night waiting. I got up from my desk and walked to hers. Instant silence – the kind a teacher would kill for. Everyone watched. My face turned purple and sweat started pouring out of my hands. I felt stupid. Stupid boy with a stupid letter and stupid arms hanging stupidly at my stupid sides.

Vicky is shaking with silent laughter. I can feel my face turning red, all these years later.

Then it got worse. So much worse. Mr Harrison had come in behind me. ‘What’s that?’ he said. He snatched the letter. I was frozen. He started reading. Out loud. He kept reading. He read it all. The. Entire. Bloody. Thing. Whole class stayed quiet till then end. They’d never had this much fun – not in maths. He stopped and the laughing went off like a bomb. Rest of the lesson was hell. I sat and stared straight ahead. When the bell went I didn’t even pick up my bag. People followed, calling out bits from the letter. By the time I crossed the playground someone had turned it into a song. Fast bastards.

‘And we’re done,’ I say, snapping the diary shut.

‘Just a bit more,’ Vicky says, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. ‘It’s too good.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh no,’ she says, fighting to control herself. ‘Don’t sulk. I’m sorry. Wait here.’ She gets up and goes to the bedroom. She’s gone a few minutes. I hear her moving things around. ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ she says, smiling as she comes back. She sits down and cuddles up against me again, then holds out a crumpled bit of paper between two fingers. ‘I married you after all. And I’ve still got your letter.’

This story won Writing Magazine’s 750-word short story competition. It was published in the magazine in September 2018.