I Pretended To Be His Crush For Three Years Chapter 15

I Pretended To Be His Crush For Three Years Chapter 15

His voice was calm. Polite. Distant, with the faintest trace of a courteous smile.

Like the very first time they’d met.

But this time, he wasn’t acting.

He genuinely didn’t know her.

She stood there, clutching the brown notebook so hard her nails pressed through the cover.

The wind picked up. She shivered.

Reid looked away from her, scanning the street. Frowned. Pulled out his phone. Glanced down at it. A

message had popped up on the screen.

She didn’t know what it said.

But she saw his eyes light up.

That light-it was exactly the same as three years ago, when he’d turned the corner in the hallway and seen

Nyssa.

He didn’t look at her again.

He turned and walked away.

Not back the way he’d come-toward the city center. His stride was light, his back straight. Nothing like the man whose voice had cracked through a door a few weeks ago. He was a completely different person.

She watched him go.

Streetlights flickered on, one by one, stretching his shadow long and thin until it melted into the dark.

At the corner, he turned and disappeared.

She looked down at the notebook.

Brown cover. A5 size. Worn edges-the corners already frayed from being flipped through so many times.

On the front, two words-her name.

The handwriting was familiar.

Reid’s handwriting. Not elegant, but precise. Every stroke pressed hard into the paper, as if carved there.

She opened it.

[Day One.]

[Met a girl in the hallway today. She bumped into me and apologized so fast her ears turned bright red like a

boiled lobster. The system crashed right after she appeared. Maybe a coincidence. But I know one thing-l

want to see her again.]

Her tears hit the page, staining the ink, bleeding a small blot across the paper.

[Day Twenty-Seven.]

[I’m sure of it now. The system is gone. And I’m not even scared. Took her for sushi tonight. When she eats

salmon, her eyes get squinty, like a cat who stole a fish. I stared at her until she asked what I was looking at. I said, “Someone beautiful.”]

[Day One Hundred Three.]

[Concert night. I sang the song I wrote for her. The lights were too bright-I couldn’t see her face. But I felt her there. Like a small star, just glowing quietly. At the last line, I thought, “Nora. This is me saying I love you.”]

Page after page. Every date. Every entry. He’d been writing this whole time, secretly, without her ever

knowing.

She didn’t know when he’d written it.

Maybe while she was asleep. Maybe when she went to the bathroom. Maybe every time she turned away.

Three years. One thousand ninety-five days.

He remembered every one.

He remembered the first flowers he gave her-daisies. Her coffee order-black, no sugar, no milk. How she always painted the bottom-right corner first. How she said she wanted to see Milan one day.

He even remembered something she’d forgotten she said: “When I’m famous, I’m going to have a solo show in Milan.”

The final page was messy. Written in a hurry.

[If you’re reading this, I’ve already forgotten you.]

[Nora. Don’t cry.]

[I won’t remember you. But I’ll never stop loving you. Because love isn’t memory. Love is instinct.]

[Find me. Bring me back.]

[Please.]

She closed the notebook and pressed it to her chest.

Under a streetlamp, a girl sat on the curb in Milan, crying like she’d lost everything.

A passerby stopped, asked in Italian if she was okay, if she needed help.

She shook her head. Wiped her face. Stood up.

Reid was right.

She would find him. She would bring him back.

For three days, Nora didn’t go to class.

She stayed in her apartment and read the notebook three times.

First pass, she cried through every page, stopping to breathe every few lines.

Second pass, she read it coldly-marking every place he mentioned, every detail he’d remembered, every

small thing about her that he’d kept.

Third pass, she closed her eyes and traced the indentation of his handwriting with her fingers, reading by

touch alone.

After the third pass, she made a decision.

She picked up her phone and texted Hailey: “Find out where Nyssa is staying in Milan.”

Hailey replied fast: “Nora? What are you going to do?”

“Just find out.”

Ten minutes later, Hailey sent a hotel name and room number, followed by a stream of panicked emojis.

Nora didn’t reply.

She changed her clothes. Put the notebook in her bag. Walked out the door.

Nyssa’s hotel was in central Milan, near the cathedral. She arrived just as dusk was settling. The lobby was

quiet. She walked to the front desk, said she needed to see Miss Nyssa. The clerk called the room.

“Miss Nyssa, a Ms. Nora is here to see you.”

A pause. Then Nyssa’s voice: “Send her up.”

The elevator rose to the sixth floor. Long hallway. Dim lighting. She knocked on 608.

The door opened.

Nyssa wore a white robe, her hair loose, no makeup. There was still a small bandage on her arm-where

glass had cut her at the party.

“Ms. Nora?” She looked surprised. “How did you-never mind. Come in.”

Nora stepped inside. The room was tidy. Sheet music on the coffee table. A cold cup of tea beside it.

“What do you need?” Nyssa sat on the couch.

Nora stood across from her, gripping her bag strap.

“Where is Reid?” she asked.

Nyssa raised an eyebrow. “You came all this way to ask me that?”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was calm-she didn’t seem to be lying. “He came to see me yesterday. He left

quickly. He looked…”

She paused.

“Like something was tearing him apart inside. You should go see him.”

Nora tightened her grip on the bag strap. She thanked Nyssa and left.

Outside, she walked for a long time. Milan at night was quiet-old cobblestones glowing under yellow lamps.

She passed the cathedral. Passed the opera house. Passed the street she knew best-the one leading to

Brera.

Where would he be?

He had no memory. He didn’t know anyone. But he had his phone, his wallet. And the system would push him toward Nyssa. But he’d already left her hotel.

So where else could he go?

She stopped.

She remembered something she’d seen on a gossip account-a short-term rental in Navigli. She’d saved the

address, thinking she’d avoid it.

She hailed a cab. Gave him the street name.

The building was old. She walked up the stairs, each step triggering a light in the narrow hallway.

Room 301.

The door was unlocked, slightly ajar. Through the gap, she heard guitar.

Not a full song. Just a loop-the same phrase over and over. A melody she knew but couldn’t place.

She pushed the door open.

The living room was dark except for a single lamp. Reid sat on the couch, guitar in his lap, head down.

Fingers moving across the strings.

He didn’t look up.

“I told you—I’m not doing that reality show. Stop calling.”

His voice was cold. Sharp. Nothing like the man she knew.

She didn’t speak.

He played the loop again. Then stopped.

Finally, he lifted his head.

The lamp lit his face. His eyes were still empty.

She looked at him and her heart cracked. He was thinner than three days ago. His cheekbones stood out. His lips were dry. His hoodie was wrinkled, with dried water stains on the collar.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Same as before. Calm. Polite. Distant, with that faint, courteous smile.

But this time, she didn’t cry on the floor.

She walked into the room, closed the door, and knelt in front of him so they were face to face.

“My name is Nora.”

“Nora…” He frowned, like the name stirred something he couldn’t reach. “I don’t know you.”

“I know.” She reached into her bag. “But you wrote a notebook. Every page is about me. Do you want to read

it?”

She placed the brown notebook on the coffee table.

He looked at it. At the name on the cover.

“Did I write this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He opened it. Turned the pages. Page by page, his frown deepened.

Halfway through, he stopped.

“All this…” His voice was rough. “I wrote all this?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I know.”

He looked up at her. His eyes were complicated. Not recognition. Something else.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Because you said-” She held his gaze. “If I found you, I’d take you back.”

“Take me back where?”

“To me.”

His fingers tightened on the notebook.

A long silence. The lamplight cast their shadows on the wall, layered over each other like an embrace.

Then he spoke.

“I don’t know who you are.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “But here-it hurts.”