"Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!"

I ran down the hallway, my yellow converse scuffing against the grey tiled floor. My light brown peacoat flared open as I skidded and turned the corner, ignoring the angry shouts behind me.

"I swear to God, I'm gonna kill that bitch!"

Like that one.

"Why am I so stupid?" I groaned as I turned another corner. The elevators were just a few meters ahead. I could make it. "Don't worry, he said. It'll be fine, he said. Well, he never said anything about the bloody insane frat girls, now did he?"

I stumbled to a stop in front of the elevator doors and doubled over, trying to catch my breath. I stole a quick glance up at the elevator button before doing a double take. "No. No way."

A bright red sign labeled 'Out of Order' hung from the button panel. An arrow pointed to a rusty door on my left, with the word 'STAIRWELL' printed in dirty white lettering.

I kicked the wall in frustration. The shouts behind me were getting louder. I was being chased by a group of crazed college girls with fake nails like the devil, and I was expected to take the stairs?

Clack clack clack!

The sound of heels pounding the floor ripped my attention away. A head of silky blonde hair emerged from around the corner, fierce blue-grey eyes fixating on me. "There she is!" she yelled. The demon leader herself.

She charged down the hall towards me, a terrifying glint in her eyes. How she didn't topple over in those six-inch Prada stilettos, I had no idea. But I didn't wait to find out.

I dashed to the stairs, throwing open the door and heading for the landing below. I took the steps three at a time, despite my small frame. Even at 5'2, my legs seemed to stretch far beyond their normal capacity. I guess being chased by a mob of angry girls will do that to you.

I heard the cast-iron door heave open behind me, but by that point I was already four levels down. Back up on the eighth floor, the blonde demon leaned over the railing, breathing heavily.

"I swear to God, I'll find you!" she called venomously. "So you better run, you shrimpy little shi—"

I ran out the exit before I could hear the rest, slamming the door behind me.

Taking a breath, I leaned against the wall. My hands were braced against my knees as my chest heaved, my out-of-shape body trying to compensate for the surprise exercise. Suddenly, Blondie's words sank in.

"Shrimpy?" I echoed, outraged. "Shrimpy?"

I was not a shrimp. 5'2 was a respectable height. Napoleon was pretty short, too, and he conquered half of Europe. Point proven.

I shook off my anger as I started walking the few blocks to my apartment complex. People gave me strange looks as I passed by. It wasn't every day you saw a tiny college student sprint out of an apartment building like her life depended on it. Actually, it wasn't every day you saw a college student sprint, period.

I reached the place in a few minutes and went inside. Thankfully, the elevator was working. I rode up to the fourth floor before dismounting and heading down the hall. The closer I got to my destination, the more my anger from before returned. By the time I reached apartment 404, I was pretty damn mad.

I knocked loudly, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching the entrance. The door swung open, revealing a twenty-something-year-old guy wearing a hoodie and grey sweatpants.

He grinned when he saw me. "Hanna! Back already, huh? You sure work fast."

I decked him in the face.

"Oww . . . what the hell was that for?" he groaned, holding his jaw. I marched inside the apartment without a word, hearing him close the door behind me.

"So you just happened not to know about the crazy sorority girls?" I asked stonily, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water.

"Oh. Right." He smiled sheepishly, his dyed-blond hair falling into his eyes. "Yeah . . . I forgot to mention those guys."

"You forgot."

"Yeah. But I'm sorry?"

"Do you have any idea what you put me through, Rokim? Do you?"

"Uhh . . ."

"I had to take the stairs!"

"Oh." He yawned. "That must have been, um, very difficult for you."

"It was! You know that stairs are my mortal enemy."

He staggered over to his fridge, withdrawing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. "Yeah, I know," he chuckled, pressing the bag against his jaw. He collapsed onto his sofa. "Sorry. Really. I forgot that Rikki was spending the break with her sorority sisters or whatever they're called."

Still giving him the stinkeye, I grudgingly sat down on the chair opposite him. "You are forgiven," I grumbled. "Wait. Rikki. That's the blonde, right? The one who has the thing for Prada?"

"That's her."

"What did you even do? I went over there to grab your stuff like you asked, but the second I mentioned your name, she got this—this look on her face. I was genuinely afraid for my life."

Rokim snorted. "She gets insanely jealous. We broke up because she thought I was cheating on her. I guess when she saw you asking about me, she just kind of assumed . . ."

I leaned back in my chair, raising my eyebrows. "I still can't believe she flipped out just because I went to pick up your stuff. Why don't you ever date normal, sane girls?"

He grinned again, the bag of peas still pressed against his face. "Sane is boring."

"Sane girls don't try to kill you with their press-on claws."

"Sane girls don't visit their best friend's crazy ex just to get a guy's address."

I laughed at that. He was kind of right, but I never considered myself to be totally sane anyway. "Fair enough. So what is his address?"

Rokim groaned and let the bag drop into his lap. "Can't you just let it be?"

"A deal's a deal, Rokim. I go to your ex's place to get the stuff you left behind. You give me the address."

He paused, looking at me with a strange expression. "Why do you need to see him so badly?"

My smile faded. "You know why," I replied seriously.

He remained silent for a few moments longer. Finally, he spoke. "The building next to the university campus. Apartment 212."

I placed my empty glass on the table and got up. "Thanks. I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

As I made my way to the door, I heard him sigh behind me. "Han."

"Yeah?" I turned to look at him. That strange, sad expression was back on his face.

"Don't expect too much. I know you guys were really close friends three years ago, but . . . he's different now. He isn't the guy you once knew."

I considered his words quietly for a second, before quirking my lips into a smirk. "Worried for me?" I teased.

He raised his brows in surprise. After a moment, he mirrored my smile. "Not in the slightest."

"Good," I said, giving him a full-blown grin and heading out. "I'll be back soon. Don't miss me too much!" I called as I closed the door behind me.

My smile dropped as I walked to the elevator. The pit in my stomach seemed to deepen with every step. I couldn't tell if it was just butterflies or something worse. Something darker.

"Three years . . ." I echoed. "It's not that long, is it?"

We were friends—best friends. Part of me was excited to see him, to exchange stories over pizza or coffee, like old times. Another part of me was terrified of how he'd react when he saw me. Would he be resentful? Hateful, even?

I got in the elevator, listening to the doors slide closed behind me. I pressed the button for ground floor, and resolved myself to just go see him. "Things will be fine after that," I mumbled.

I guess you can call that mistake number one.

The next twenty minutes passed by in a blur. The university was pretty close by, but time seemed to slow to a crawl. Finally, I found myself staring at his door.

Apartment 212.

I chuckled at the number. "Did he choose it intentionally, or is it just a coincidence?" I murmured curiously.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I knocked on the door. My anxiety increased as I heard footsteps approach the entrance. What would his first expression be like? Happy? Angry? A little bit of both?

The door swung inward, and I sucked in a breath.

My eyes landed on caramel skin, full lips, piercing dark eyes ringed with long black lashes. He'd cut his hair—the dark locks were now short and styled messily, like he ran his hand through it often. He was wearing a loose black tee and black denim jeans underneath a dark grey trench coat. Even his dress shoes were black. He was like a walking pillar of obsidian.

He stared down into my face. I stared back, breathless. He seemed at once the same and completely different. It was striking.

I was unable to make a sound. All I could do was stare into those ink-dark eyes and try not to drown in the memories that suddenly engulfed me.

He still hadn't said a word. My voice seemed stuck in my throat, but the pit in my stomach was a roaring abyss. I knew it, I thought, panicked. I knew he resented me, I can see it in his eyes, this was so stupid, he totally hates m—

"Who are you?"

My eyebrows shot up. I gaped at him in utter surprise.

"W-what?"

His eyes passed over my face without a hint of recognition. "I didn't order anything. If you're here to make a delivery, you've got the wrong place."

I watched him in dumbfounded disbelief. "You . . . you don't know who I am?"

He gave me a once-over, and I was taken aback by the iciness in his gaze. Like I was a stranger.

"I don't really enjoy repeating myself," he said stonily. "But you seem a bit slow, so I'll make an exception."

He leaned down, bending his tall frame to bring his face closer to mine. "Who—are—you?" he repeated, his voice impassive.

I felt blood rush to my cheeks. "Hanna Jordan," I said, regaining my wits. This guy . . . was this really him?

He studied my face for a second longer, completely expressionless. Then he abruptly straightened, getting his keys out of his pocket. "I don't know a Hanna Jordan," he said as he locked his door. "Now if you'll excuse me." He strode past me without a second glance.

I went after him, trying to keep up. I had to take three steps for every one of his—at least that seemed right. But everything else . . . it was like he was a different person altogether.

"Hey!" I called after him. I was starting to get frustrated. "Wait a second!"

He stopped in front of the elevator and pressed the down button. I caught up to him, trying to regain my breath. "You," I gasped. "You really don't . . . remember me?"

"Evidently not," he replied coolly.

"We used to be friends! Practically since we were toddlers!" I said incredulously. I'd expected some reaction, like disgust, or anger, something. But for him to not recognize me at all . . . how does a person forget an entire lifetime in just three years?

He glanced at me, a dark glint in his gaze. "You have the wrong person."

"No I don't!" I insisted. "Come on, Rian. You must be kidding."

The elevator doors opened with a ding. "I won't ask how you know my name," he said frostily, "but I can assure you, I don't kid."

He stepped inside, turning to face me. He pressed a button on the panel, staring me directly in the eyes. I was again struck by the coldness in his gaze.

"Besides, judging by this absurd little meet-and-greet of ours," he started, his voice icier than ever, "even if I did remember you, I definitely wouldn't want to." 

And with that, the elevator doors slid shut with a resounding thud.

I stared, dumbfounded, at the space where he'd stood.

I felt my thoughts coming to a boil, and the rush of blood to my cheeks intensified. After all of that, even throughout the emotional rollercoaster I'd just endured, I had just one question. Not why he didn't remember me, or what he'd been doing all this time. Oh no. My question was simple:

How the hell do you turn into that much of a jackass in just three years?