katrinaloveslauratool.
Laura froze.
She traced the letters with her fingertip. Then she turned to leave. lauraloveskatrina
By senior year, Laura had stopped writing it. The phrase felt too heavy, too raw. She’d accepted that some loves were meant to stay on the underside of desks—invisible, permanent, but never touched. Katrina had started dating a boy named Mike who played lacrosse and didn’t know how to spell “algebra.” katrinaloveslauratool
Katrina was standing at the edge of the field, hands in the pockets of her jean jacket. The sunset painted her gold. Then she turned to leave
The first time Laura wrote it, she was eleven. She’d stolen a red marker from the teacher’s desk and pressed the words into the underside of her desk: lauraloveskatrina . It was a secret, so she hid it where only someone crawling on the floor for a lost eraser would find it. No one did.