My Online Boyfriend Mistook Me for Someone Else—I Left Chapter 06
The weight of that discovery kept me awake all night. I debated for days whether I should log back into that old Snapchat account, add him back, and demand the truth.
But a few afternoons later, on my walk home from school, the universe gave me my answer.
In a quiet, deserted corner near the back gates, I saw Cynthia Valentine rise slightly on her tiptoes. She leaned in and softly kissed the corner of Weston Sterling’s mouth.
The wind rustled through the canopy above, the only sound in the quiet afternoon.
I hid behind the shadow of a brick wall, catching her sweet, playful voice. “My family wants me to study abroad next term. You’ll come with me, right?”
Weston let out a low, indulgent laugh. “Since you’re the one asking, how could I say no?”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, tears silently spilling over my lashes.
There was no point in asking anymore. Even if he had gotten the girl wrong, what difference would it make? If I stepped forward now and claimed the title, would he magically fall in love with me?
No. He would probably just feel an overwhelming wave of disappointment. Disappointment that the clever, charming girl behind the screen wasn’t the flawless class belle, but a plain, invisible nobody like me.
That afternoon, I made a final peace with myself. I was going to let Weston go. I took that blue butterfly hair tie and dropped it into a trash can on the street.
At our age, the word “love” felt incredibly heavy, yet utterly fragile. But regardless of heartbreak, my future was heavier.
I channeled every ounce of my broken heart into my textbooks. Wilder Vance was the first to notice the shift, sending a text a week later:
[Haven’t seen you step foot out of your classroom lately. Alive in there?]
Naturally, it meant I rarely ran into him or Weston anymore.
I replied: [Senior year is around the corner. I need to focus on my grades.]
The chat bubble blinked for a long time before his short reply came through: [Got it.]
I assumed that would be the end of our casual chatter. But the very next evening, right after the library closed, a tall shadow fell over my desk.
Weston Sterling was standing there, holding a thick stack of advanced study guides and meticulously organized notebooks. He slid them onto my desk.
“Wilder told me to hand these over to you.”
I blinked in surprise, my instincts taking over. “Where is he?”
Weston stared down at me for a long, quiet moment. “He dragged me out for midnight hoops yesterday, took a bad fall, and busted his leg. He’s currently locked up in a hospital bed.”
My heart jumped, and I instinctively stood up. “Is it bad? How is he?”
“He’s fine. He’ll be back on his feet in a couple of days.”
But when I pressed him for the hospital name, Weston closed up and refused to tell me.
The second he walked away, I pulled out my phone and fired a text to Wilder. It took hours for his reply to flash across my screen.
Wilder: [I’m totally fine, just a scratch! It’s way too embarrassing for you to see me like this, give a guy some dignity here!]
Wilder: [Did you get the books Weston brought? Two of those notebooks are his master notes. Took me forever to bribe him for them. They’re yours now.]
I typed back: [Received. Thank you so much, Wilder. Once you’re discharged, dinner is on me.]
He sent back a ridiculous, cute emoji.
I locked my phone and looked down at the stack of materials. Opening the top notebook, my eyes locked onto the elegant cursive signature on the inside cover: Weston Sterling.
I stared at his name for a split second before flipping the page with an unbothered expression.
I couldn’t deny it — these notes were absolute gold. I forced every stray thought out of my head, systematically ignoring his handwriting style every time I opened them.
My grades had always hovered safely around the top thirty in our tier. But by the time final exams rolled around, my name had violently shot into the top ten.
Wilder sent a prompt message: [Congrats, superstar.]
After he returned to school, I brought up the dinner offer twice, but he brushed it off every single time, claiming he was too busy. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his real angle — he just didn’t want me spending my savings on him.
Beyond that, our paths rarely crossed. I spent the entire summer break devouring every piece of knowledge in those notebooks.
Senior year blurred past in a flash of mock exams and endless coffee. I barely left my seat, let alone kept tabs on the ongoing romance between Weston and Cynthia.
But they were too loud to ignore. Fragments of their fairytale kept bleeding into my world anyway.
Word went around that for Cynthia Valentine’s eighteenth birthday, Weston had cleared out an empty luxury villa owned by his family, inviting half our class for a massive celebration. He had supposedly designed and arranged the entire venue with his own hands.
The level of devotion was staggering.
One afternoon, a few girls were gossiping right next to my desk. “But seriously, did anyone see the birthday card he wrote her? Why did he address it to ‘May’?”
“No idea. Never heard anyone call her that. Must be a private pet name only Weston uses.”
I sat perfectly still, holding my pen. The calm, steady heart I had built over the year suddenly suffered a sharp, painful tremor.
May. That was my handle during our three years of anonymous Snapchat exchanges. That was what he used to call me every single day.
And now, he was calling Cynthia Valentine by my name in private?
And Cynthia… she knew damn well she was living a stolen life. Yet, she was playing the part flawlessly without blinking.