The rumors start on Monday.

I don't hear them at first. I'm too busy hiding in the film club room during lunch, rewatching Sunrise and trying not to think about Felix's text message still glowing on my phone screen.

Sweet dreams, film girl.

I've read it approximately seven hundred times.

I'm pathetic.

But then Priya bursts through the door, her face flushed and furious, and I know something's wrong.

"Tell me it's not true," she says.

I pause the film. "Tell you what's not true?"

"That you and Felix are using the film club as a hookup spot. That the whole thing is just an excuse for you two to—" She makes a vague, frustrated gesture. "You know."

The words hit like a slap.

"What?"

"Sienna Caldwell is telling everyone that the film club is basically a sex den. That you're only pretending to care about old movies so you can seduce Felix Zhang in the dark." Priya drops into the chair beside me. "She's got half the school convinced that we should lose our funding because we're misusing school resources for 'inappropriate activities.'"

My stomach turns to ice.

"That's insane. We haven't—" I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. Because we have kissed. Once. In his car. With his hand on my face and my fingers in his hair and—

Focus, Margot.

"Sienna's full of shit," I say flatly.

"Obviously. But that doesn't matter. People are listening." Priya pulls out her phone and shows me the group chat. "Look."

I scroll through the messages, each one worse than the last. Someone's started a poll about whether the film club should be shut down. Someone else has photoshopped a picture of me and Felix with the caption Netflix and Chill: 1940s Edition.

I'm going to be sick.

"It gets worse," Priya says quietly. "She's going after Felix too."

"What do you mean?"

"His friends are giving him hell. Saying he's tanking his reputation for some weird girl who lives in the past. That he should quit before he becomes a complete social pariah."

The projection booth suddenly feels too small, too hot. I can't breathe.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. This is why I don't let people in. Because they become weapons. Because caring about something makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability gets you destroyed.

"I should quit," I say. "If I step down as president, maybe she'll—"

"Don't you dare." Priya's voice is sharp. "Don't you dare let her win."

But she's already won. That's what Sienna does. She identifies what you love and she takes it apart piece by piece until there's nothing left.

My phone buzzes.

*Felix: Can we talk?

I stare at the message until my vision blurs.

Me: Probably not a good idea right now.

Felix: Since when do you care about good ideas?

Me: Since people started treating the film club like a punchline.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Felix: Meet me after school. Please.

I don't respond.

I spend the rest of the day avoiding everyone. I skip my usual route to English and take the long way around the science wing. I eat lunch in my car. I keep my head down and my earbuds in and pretend I can't hear the whispers following me through the halls.

By seventh period, I'm ready to transfer schools.

And then Felix Zhang ruins everything.

I'm in calculus, trying to focus on derivatives and failing miserably, when there's a commotion in the hallway. Raised voices. Laughter. The distinctive sound of someone making a scene.

Mrs. Patterson sighs and opens the classroom door.

The cafeteria is visible from here, and there—standing on top of a lunch table like some kind of deranged theater kid—is Felix.

Oh no.

Oh no.

He's not speaking. He's pantomiming.

I watch in absolute horror as he presses both hands to his chest, miming a heartbeat. Then he points toward the hallway—toward my classroom—and clutches his heart like he's been shot.

Someone whistles. Someone else laughs.

Felix drops to one knee on the table, arms spread wide in supplication.

"What is he doing?" someone whispers behind me.

He's doing a silent film performance. Right there in the middle of the cafeteria. In front of half the school.

I'm going to kill him.

He's gesturing wildly now, pointing to his eyes, then to his heart, then toward my classroom again. I see you. You're in my heart.

It's mortifying.

It's ridiculous.

It's the most embarrassing thing I've ever witnessed.

And it's also—somehow, impossibly—kind of beautiful.

Because he's not mocking the silent films. He's honoring them. Every gesture is deliberate, exaggerated in that specific way that Chaplin and Keaton perfected. He's telling a story without words, and the story is about devotion.

The cafeteria has gone quiet. Everyone's watching.

Felix makes a sweeping gesture toward the film club poster on the wall, then places his hand over his heart again. He's defending it. Defending us.

"Mr. Zhang!" Principal Morrison's voice cuts through the silence. "Get down from there immediately!"

Felix hops down from the table, takes an elaborate bow, and blows a kiss in my direction.

The cafeteria erupts.

I sink lower in my seat, my face burning hot enough to melt steel.

Mrs. Patterson closes the door. "Well," she says mildly. "That was certainly something."

My phone buzzes.

Felix: Meet me outside. Now.

Me: Absolutely not.

Felix: Margot.

Me: You just humiliated me in front of the entire school.

Felix: I defended you in front of the entire school. There's a difference.

Me: I didn't ask you to do that.

Felix: You shouldn't have to ask.

I stare at the message, my chest tight.

The bell rings. I grab my bag and bolt for the parking lot, keeping my head down, ignoring the stares and whispers. I just need to get to my car. I just need to get out of here.

"Margot!"

Felix's voice cuts across the parking lot.

I walk faster.

"Margot, come on!"

His hand catches my elbow, spinning me around.

He's breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than usual, his eyes bright with something that might be adrenaline or defiance or both. He smells like cedar and orange zest and catastrophe.

"What the hell was that?" I demand.

"That was me making a point."

"By turning us into a circus act?"

"By showing everyone that I'm not ashamed." He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Sienna wants us to slink away quietly. She wants you to feel embarrassed for caring about something real. I'm not giving her that."

"You don't get to decide that for me!"

"Then what do you want me to do? Quit? Pretend I don't care about the club? Pretend I don't—" He stops himself, jaw clenched.

"Pretend you don't what?"

The parking lot feels too small suddenly. Too bright. There are people around us, watching, whispering, and I don't care. All I can see is Felix, standing too close, looking at me like I'm something precious and terrifying.

"Pretend I don't care about you," he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical blow.

"Don't," I whisper.

"Don't what? Don't tell the truth?"

"Don't make this harder than it already is."

"It's only hard because you're fighting it."

"I'm fighting it because it's going to end badly!" My voice cracks. "Everything ends badly. People leave. People disappoint you. People—"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

He's so close now I can count his eyelashes. Can see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth.

"You're infuriating," I say.

"You're terrified."

"I'm practical."

"You're running away."

"I'm trying to protect—"

"What? The club? Your heart? Me?" His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Newsflash, film girl: I don't need protecting. And neither do you."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me. Stop hiding behind Bogart and Bacall and talk to me."

The parking lot has disappeared. There's only Felix, his hand warm against my skin, his eyes searching mine like I'm a mystery he's desperate to solve.

"I can't," I whisper.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

His laugh is soft, almost sad. "You know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You think loving something makes you weak. But it's the opposite. It's the bravest thing you do."

Something breaks open in my chest.

I kiss him.

Or he kisses me.

Or we collide somewhere in the middle, desperate and angry and inevitable.

His hand slides into my hair, scattering bobby pins across the pavement. My fingers grip his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough. He tastes like orange zest and recklessness, and I'm drowning in cedar and want and the terrible, wonderful realization that I am completely, catastrophically lost.

He kisses like he does everything else—wholly, intensely, like I'm the only thing that matters in the entire world.

It's terrifying.

It's perfect.

It's going to destroy me.

I pull away, gasping.

Felix's eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his hand still tangled in my hair.

"Margot—"

"'We'll always have Paris,'" I blurt out.

He blinks. "What?"

"Casablanca. When they—when he—" I'm backing away now, fumbling for my car keys. "It's a quote. From the movie. When they have to say goodbye."

"We're not saying goodbye."

"Yes, we are."

"Margot—"

"I can't do this, Felix. I can't—" My hands are shaking so badly I drop my keys. "I can't be the person you think I am."

"You already are."

"No." I scoop up my keys, my vision blurring. "You don't know me. You don't know what I—"

"Then let me know you. Stop running and let me—"

"I have to go."

I'm in my car before he can respond, engine starting, tears already streaming down my face.

In my rearview mirror, I can see him standing in the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me leave.

Just like everyone always does.

Just like I always make them.

My phone buzzes at the first red light.

Felix: Running away doesn't make you safe. It just makes you alone.

I throw the phone into the passenger seat and drive home with my heart in pieces and the taste of cedar and orange zest still burning on my tongue.

My grandmother's pearls feel too tight around my throat.

When I get home, I lock myself in the film club room—the one my grandfather built in our basement, the one that still smells like pipe tobacco and peppermint—and I watch Double Indemnity.*

Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. Passion and betrayal and murder.

A cautionary tale about wanting the wrong thing.

About how desire destroys everything it touches.

I watch it twice.

And when my phone buzzes again at midnight, I don't even look at the message.

I just curl up on the floor in my grandfather's projection booth operator jacket and let myself break.

Because Felix is wrong.

Love doesn't make you brave.

It makes you vulnerable.

And vulnerability gets you killed.

My phone keeps buzzing.

I keep ignoring it.

Until I hear the sound of pebbles hitting my bedroom window.