Kenzie Love Pov Here

Instead, I stand up. I splash cold water on my face. I look at my reflection—messy bun, mascara slightly smudged, a small silver necklace with a crescent moon that E gave me for my birthday. I touch the charm. It’s warm from my skin.

From downstairs, I hear E’s laugh. That specific laugh—the one they only do when they’re a little drunk, a little reckless. The one that used to be just for me.

Too confrontational. Delete. “Are you okay? You seemed… distracted.” Too passive. Delete. “I think I’m in love with you and it’s making me stupid.” kenzie love pov

I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey. We need to talk about what I saw tonight.”

I set the phone down. Face-down. Because if I see the screen light up with their name, I’ll crumble. And I can’t crumble. Not yet. Not here. Instead, I stand up

“You’re Kenzie Love,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t beg. You don’t chase. You feel things, but you don’t let them drown you.”

It’s a lie. I am drowning. But I’m also stubborn. I touch the charm

And here’s the thing about being Kenzie Love: people assume I’m immune to jealousy. I’m the “chill girl.” The one who laughs off drama, who says “it’s fine” when it’s absolutely not fine. I’ve built a whole identity around being low-maintenance, easygoing, a safe harbor for other people’s storms.