The Ice King's Regret

I acted like a complete idiot. I threw myself at Tristan, the most untouchable guy on campus. Everyone recognized him as a walking red flag—icecold and totally out of reach.

To win him over, I shoved fresh breakfast onto his desk every single morning. He offered zero thanks.

Instead, he sneered, pushed the food back, and reported me to the teacher for "distracting" him. I watched my heart hit the bottom of the trash can. My reaction?

I pushed even harder. A forced school transfer finally snapped me awake. The devastating reality crushed my delusions. Pure obsession blinded me. I acted beyond pathetic.

Chapter 1 I lacked boundaries back then. The second I stepped onto campus freshman year, I locked eyes on Tristan. He looked like a masterpiece.

Sharp jawline, deepset hazel eyes, and this perpetually bored, infuriatingly perfect mouth. The memory still burns in my brain. Freshman orientation.

He stood on stage delivering the freshman welcome speech. I stood in the front row, totally spellbound. I never knew a guy could look like that.

Right then and there, a single thought consumed me: I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone like him. I secured the number two spot in our grade. Tristan held number one.

Naturally, the school seated us together. I saw it as fate. A golden ticket to wear him down. I found out he skipped breakfast.

So, I started bringing him loaded bacon and egg burritos from the food truck near my apartment. The absolute best spot in town.

I shoved the warm foil wrapper across our shared desk, smiling like an idiot. He didn't even blink. He pushed it right back, sliding it off the edge. Then he raised his hand. "Ms.

Harris, Avery brought hot food into the classroom. The grease smell keeps ruining my concentration." Ms.

Harris scowled at me, ready to hand out a detention, but remembered my flawless GPA. She marched over, snatched the foil wrapper, and walked out.

A heavy thud echoed from the hallway trash can. I didn't dare to look anymore, and just buried my face in my textbook to study. I refused to back off.

The rejection only fueled my delusion. I let it sting for exactly half a day.

By the afternoon study hall, I leaned into his space again. "Not a burrito guy?" I whispered. "What do you like?

I can grab something else tomorrow." He gave me a single, icecold glare. He shoved his chair back, stood up, and walked out. I swallowed the humiliation.

The second he returned, I resumed my post. I smothered him with attention. His pencil snapped; I slammed a freshly sharpened one onto his notebook.

He left his assignment in the faculty room; I sprinted down the hall to fetch it before he could even sit down. He stared right through me.

He took the pencil, took the paper, and went back to ignoring my existence. I refused to take a hint. Every passing period, I flooded his ears with my life story.

I told him about my parents' messy divorce. How my mom and I lived with my Nana.

How Nana grew her own tomatoes on the fire escape and made the best lasagna in the world. "You should come over this weekend," I babbled, leaning closer. "Nana loves feeding my friends." Silence.

Classic Tristan. I shrugged it off. I mastered the art of talking to a brick wall. "Or not! Totally fine. I can pack you some leftovers on Monday.

Monday remains the absolute best day," I kept going, desperate to fill the quiet. "My mom actually gets a day off on Mondays. Nana always cooks a massive dinner to celebrate.

My mom breaks her back working double shifts. She gave up everything for me. Soon as I graduate and get a real job, I plan to spoil her rotten—" I spilled my guts.

I laid my whole heart bare on that cheap wooden desk. Tristan just kept solving math equations. His pen scratched across the paper, rhythmically, endlessly.

His face remained a perfect, blank mask. He possessed a superpower for tuning me out. Every vulnerability, every secret I handed him, just sank like a stone in a dark ocean.

Not even a single ripple. Chapter 2 I didn't care. I was a born chatterbox anyway. If he refused to talk, I carried the conversation solo. I broke down my morning bagel choices.

I analyzed my screwups on the AP History exam. I poured so much energy into Tristan, I actually convinced myself we shared a deep bond. The bond existed entirely in my head.

He never tossed a single word my way. The guy hoarded his syllables. If I hadn't heard him recite chemistry formulas for Ms. Harris, I would have sworn he lacked vocal cords.

Six months of sharing a desk. Three breakfast burritos offered. Three detentions threatened. Three perfectly good meals slammed into the trash. I finally stopped bringing him food.

Nana hated wasting anything, and she raised me to respect every dollar.

Watching my warm offerings hit the bottom of the garbage can cracked something right down the middle of my chest. I swapped the food for words.

I filled every passing period with endless chatter. Tristan absorbed it all with absolute silence. The rejection stung at first. Then I grew callous to it.

I kept oversharing anyway. Sometimes, I actually shut up. Once a month, brutal cramps ripped through my abdomen. The pain drained my energy.

I pressed my cheek against the cool desk and stared out the window. Sparrows darted past the glass. Blue jays fought over branches.

They flew around, totally free, totally oblivious to my misery. My rare silence caught his attention. Tristan actually shot a glance my way.

I caught him looking and flashed a weak grin. He scowled, instantly snapping his eyes back to his textbook. I let my heavy eyelids droop shut. At sixteen, I craved adulthood.

I genuinely believed turning eighteen would magically erase all these suffocating rules. Seasons blurred together.

In October, I slid a bag of roasted sunflower seeds from Nana’s garden onto his notebook. He ignored them. I cracked them open and ate the entire bag myself.

In December, the first snow hit. "Want to build a snowman during lunch?" I asked. Nothing. I went out, made a tiny snowman, and brought it over just to show him.

Spring semester rolled around. Nana made her famous savory scallion and egg crepes. I brought a whole batch to school and passed portions down the aisles.

For the first time ever, Tristan actually took a bite. When summer hit, I ditched the jeans for shorts. "Pool this weekend?" I asked him. Classic silent treatment.

I shrugged, swiveled in my chair, and invited the girls behind us instead. Saturday afternoon. Three girls and I lounged by the community pool.

One of them kicked her legs in the water, eyeing me. "Avery, how do you handle it? The guy is so intimidating and totally untouchable. Nobody else dares to even look at Tristan.

You chase him so hard. People call you a simp.

Doesn't all that rejection make you sick to your stomach?" I rested my chin on my folded arms at the edge of the pool. "But I like him. He looks like a model.

He scores perfect on every exam. He practically glows." She tilted her head. "Fair.

But what if he never cracks?" "Then he never cracks." I splashed water at her. "A crush won't tank my SAT scores." "True!

Plus, you guys match academically." She grinned, her eyes shining with a weird mix of pity and admiration. "Keep trying, Avery. He has to feel something for you.

You exude such a bright and warm vibe. I'd date you!" She admired my thick skin, clearly impressed by my absolute delusion. I hauled myself out of the water.

I sat on the wet tiles, my mind drifting. The late afternoon sun hit the frosted glass of the indoor patio, casting distorted, hazy shadows across my legs.

Chapter 3 Sophomore year kicked off with a brutal schedule change. The administration hauled in a strict new homeroom advisor.

Rumor had it they paid him top dollar for his sevenyear streak of churning out Ivy League admits. Day one, he shattered the old rules.

He completely rearranged the seating chart to enforce strict discipline. He ripped me away from Tristan. I swapped desks with some random guy.

The advisor banished me to the freezing front corner and shoved Tristan to the absolute back row. Miles apart. I couldn't even catch a glimpse of the back of his head.

The new dictator cracked the whip. No leaving the classroom between periods. No wandering the aisles. Absolute silence during study periods.

The administration even slashed our lunch break from thirtyfive minutes to twentyfive. Every new rule hammered another nail into my coffin. I lost my window to bother Tristan.

I lost my homecooked lunches. We shared the same four walls, but our connection flatlined. The devastation didn't last long. Pure survival instinct took over.

The AP curriculum moved at a breakneck speed. Everyone scrambled to keep their heads above water. The easygoing freshman vibe evaporated.

The classroom air felt thick, heavy with collective panic. I used to care about my appearance. I always carved out time to braid my hair.

I woke up early just to blend tinted moisturizer over my acne scars and swipe on a sheer gloss. But sophomore year crushed me. Exhaustion seeped into my bones.

The endless grinding squeezed every drop of free time out of my mornings. One by one, the other girls chopped off their hair to save time. I held out the longest.

The advisor kept aiming warning glares at my hair, frowning in obvious displeasure. I dragged myself home that afternoon and stood in front of the bathroom mirror for an eternity.

My fingers combed through the lengths I spent eight years growing out. I grabbed the kitchen shears. The metal blades sliced through the thick strands.

A heavy physical knot formed in my throat with every loud snip. Staring at the mess on the floor, my brain immediately drifted to Tristan. I walked past his desk the next morning.

I threw a hopeful glance his way. Total waste of energy. Tristan never even looked up. The advisor droned on about calculus. For the first time all year, my brain just shut down.

I propped my chin in my hand and dragged my pencil across a piece of scrap paper. Lines turned into a portrait. Tristan's portrait.

I poured an entire fortyfive minutes into shading his jawline. The warning bell screamed through the room. I dropped my pencil. Nobody moved. Dead, suffocating silence.

Prickles of heat crawled up the back of my neck. Eyes bored into me from every direction. Panic flared. I snatched the paper.

A heavy hand slammed down, pinning my wrist to the desk. The paper slid out from under my trembling fingers. I jerked my head up. The advisor stood right over me.

He studied the graphite sketch, his mouth twisting in disgust. He shifted his glare toward the back of the room. "Tristan.

Explain your relationship with Avery." Tristan slowly raised his head.

His cold hazel eyes locked onto the flimsy piece of paper. "She constantly harasses me." Those four words ripped the air out of my lungs.

It felt like plunging into an icehouse; I couldn't catch my breath. Violent shivers wracked my entire frame. A harsh, grating laugh barked from the advisor's throat.

He tossed the sketch onto my desk. "Shameless." Chapter 4 My vision tunneled. White noise roared in my ears. I remained frozen in my plastic chair.

The homeroom advisor's footsteps faded down the hall, leaving me completely alone. Oxygen refused to reach my lungs. Eventually, my chin dropped.

My vacant stare locked onto that flimsy piece of paper. It looked radioactive. My skin crawled just looking at the pencil marks. I couldn't force my fingers to touch it.

Finally, I snatched the sketch and crushed it into a tight ball. "Whoa! Picasso throwing away her masterpiece?" a guy snickered behind me.

The students, long suffocated by the academic pressure, seemed to have finally found an outlet. The girls just stared, their silence deafening.

The guys, who always resented me throwing myself at Tristan, went right for the jugular. "Picasso looks like she's gonna cry!" one taunted. "Careful, your makeup is gonna run.

Gross." I didn't blink. I didn't breathe. I handled the initial fallout okay. Eating my cafeteria lunch alone and finishing my worksheets in dead silence became the new normal.

Whenever I dared to ask a question, they just acted like I was invisible. Eventually, I learned to exist as a ghost. But nobody actually wants to be the school pariah.

I tried buying my way back in. I slid a box of expensive macarons across the lunch table to some girls I used to talk to.

They stared at the pastry box like it held a dead rat. "Seriously? She has zero shame," one of them whispered loudly. "She probably throws herself at any guy with a pulse.

God knows what she's carrying. Ew. Disgusting. Let's move." Static filled my brain. I came armed with a peace offering. The slutshaming hit me like a physical blow.

My throat clamped shut, paralyzing my vocal cords. The isolation swallowed me whole. Even the teachers started looking the other way. The gaslighting worked.

I started tearing myself apart. Maybe I was the problem. My obsession with Tristan crossed a line. My relentless chattering ruined his peace. I deserved this absolute misery.

I earned every single vicious comment. Even trying to cover my acne felt like a crime. But then the panic attacks would hit. The heavy, suffocating doubt.

Did I really deserve all of this? I liked him. But I asked him, so many times, "Do I annoy you?

Tell me to stop, and I'll leave you alone." Every single time, Tristan just gave me that blank stare. He refused to say the word. So, I kept trying.

The nightmares started a week later. Dark, freezing water rushed into my mouth. I thrashed in the deep end of an endless pool. I forced my eyes open against the chlorine sting.

Tristan stood perfectly dry on the pool deck, staring down at me.

I choked on the water, forcing a desperate, burning smile. "Do you hate me?" The dream version of Tristan didn't stay quiet.

He looked right at me and said, "Yes." My eyes snapped open. I shot up in bed, my tshirt soaked in a cold sweat. I stared into the pitchblack bedroom, my chest heaving.

Minutes bled by. I slammed my hand against the lamp switch. I threw my legs over the edge of the mattress, grabbed my AP Physics textbook, and started solving equations.

If reality felt this agonizing, I would just numb myself with studying. For six brutal months, I buried my entire existence under mountains of practice exams.

The total isolation turned into pure, unadulterated fuel. I desperately needed to prove I wasn't just some pathetic punchline. Midterms rolled around. I did surprisingly well.

I beat Tristan's perfect streak by a single, glorious point. The administration bumped him. I stood on the auditorium stage as the new rankone student.

I gripped the edges of the wooden podium, broadcasting my study strategies into the microphone. When I finished, the entire auditorium erupted.

The applause physically shook the floorboards. "A perfect score on the midterms!" a freshman girl shrieked from the front row. "Avery, you're a literal god!" Right then, under the blinding stage lights, I felt my lungs fully expand for the first time in half a year.

The old, vibrant version of me finally woke up. Chapter 5 See? I still had it. People still liked me.

Stepping off that stage, the crushing weight of six months of isolation finally lifted. I took a hard look in the mirror. I owed Tristan an apology.

My relentless, thickskinned obsession had suffocated him.

I used to be so clueless, actually convincing myself we were just like those characters in novels—the damaged, brooding guy who just needed a stubbornly loyal girl to stay by his side.

I twisted his silence into secret affection just because he never explicitly asked for a seat change. I read way too many romance paperbacks.

When someone hates you, they only need to say it once. I tracked Tristan down. I blocked his path right at the campus gates. He scowled, pure irritation flashing in his hazel eyes.

I bowed my head, projecting my voice. "I am genuinely sorry.

I never meant to make your life a living hell." "Got it." "I promise I'll back off permanently." "Yeah." He accepted the apology with his usual icecold indifference.

A massive wave of relief washed over me. I flashed a genuine smile. "Bye, Tristan. See you around." His gaze tracked me as I walked away. He didn't offer another syllable.

He just slid into the backseat of his waiting SUV. He forgave me. We wiped the slate clean. I practically skipped down the sidewalk.

I imagined walking into homeroom tomorrow and actually existing again. People would talk to me. We would swap AP Calc notes. I owned my toxic behavior, apologized, and fixed it.

My sixmonth prison sentence finally ended. I felt happier and happier. Then I blindly turned the corner. I slammed hard into a group of five kids. Two girls, three guys.

All from my homeroom. I stumbled back, instantly holding up my hands. "My bad! I wasn't looking where I was going." They whipped around.

Vicious, ugly sneers twisted their faces. "Think you're untouchable now just because you ranked first?" one girl spat. "You're still just a desperate stalker." Hot anger spiked through my veins. "I am not a stalker.

And my life is literally none of your business! Back off." A guy stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a cruel smirk. "Got a mouth on you now.

Let's see how tough you actually are." His arm drew back. I flinched, trying to duck. I couldn't dodge in time. The fist landed on my head, leaving my brain buzzing.

Whitehot static exploded behind my eyes. I shoved at his chest. Solid muscle. My palms just slid off