Me, Myself and I

Life? Yeah… It’s Been a Whole Drama Series.

Hi, I’m Taylor, 18 years old, and let’s just say—my life? Whew. It flipped upside down like a plot twist no one saw coming.

One minute, I’m living the dream—fancy clothes, rich-kid problems, and parents who ran an entire town in Paris called San Frickas (yes, sounds made up, but it’s real, I swear). The next? Boom. Tragedy struck like lightning.

My parents died. A plane crash. On the way to my sister’s birthday party, no less. Ever since then, birthdays haven’t felt like cake and balloons—they feel like reminders. Of loss. Of emptiness. Of… everything.

But I’m still standing. Still breathing. I went back to school. I packed my emotional baggage (along with my actual suitcases), and at 18, I told myself, “Screw it. Let’s go to Italy and live.” Except… plot twist again—I ended up in Oklahoma, USA. Don’t ask how. Long story.

Thanks to my trust fund (thank you, Mom and Dad), I got myself a cozy apartment, customized it to look like a Pinterest dream, and started college. New town, new me. But living alone? Not as glam as it sounds. There are nights I just stare at the ceiling wondering how I got here.

But hey, enough about the sad stuff. This isn’t just my story—it’s ours.

Bzzz! My alarm screamed like it had beef with me. I groaned, rolled over, peeked at the time—and nearly died.

“Oh. My. God. I’m so d*mn late!”

I launched out of bed like it owed me money, did the world’s fastest shower, and threw on a pink tank top, a flowing maxi skirt, and my trusty Timberland boots (fashion meets chaos). Hair? Braided into a side part because—effort, but cute.

Jet black hair? Check. Emerald green eyes? Still sparkling. Braces? On point. Backpack? Pre-packed because I’m that kind of chaos-organized queen.

I zoomed into the kitchen, made toast like I was on a cooking game show, chugged milk straight from the cup, and dashed out.

Now here’s where it gets juicy: I rode a bike. Yes, a literal bicycle. I know, shocker, right? I, Miss Ex-Parisian Luxury, pedaling through Oklahoma like it’s the Tour de Suburbia. But hey, it’s good cardio and gas is expensive.

So technically, I’m the new girl. But not really. I’ve got friends. Real ones. Like Lila—my ride-or-die—and Steven, my sweet baby boo.

Steven was the first human I met here. He helped me figure out everything—where the classes were, which food in the cafeteria wouldn’t kill me, you name it. He was perfect boyfriend material… at least, I thought so. But that story’s messy, so we’ll save it for later.

Anyway, Stefan (yeah, different guy—don’t get confused) and Lila were waiting for me at the school gate. Stefan is… complicated. Tall, dark, kind of a bad boy, into sports, and, um, allegedly a credit cheat (not confirmed, but vibes don’t lie).

And Jason? Don’t even get me started on Jason. The actual golden boy. Star quarterback, gymnast, total eye candy with icy blue eyes and ash-colored hair that looks like it was made by a Greek god. But nope—I’m not into him. At least, I keep telling myself that. I’m with Stefan. Right?

Lila, my bestie, doesn’t have a boyfriend. So I tell her everything about mine. Yes, even the weird stuff. And yes, in case you’re wondering—I’m still a virgin. Don’t look so shocked.

First period: Spanish. I hate Spanish. Not because it’s hard, but because it’s 8AM and I don’t want to conjugate verbs before I’ve emotionally recovered from my alarm betrayal.

As expected, Stefan bailed on class—again. So it was just me and Lila. The teacher started talking and talking and… yeah, I zoned out hard.

Then I saw him. Jason. And suddenly, my brain was like, “Feelings? You rang?”

Why was I staring at him like I was in a Netflix teen drama? He’s not even my type. But also… he kind of is?

I shook it off and focused. Spanish class droned on, and finally—freedom. Only one problem: I had basketball tryouts next.

Okay, so here’s the deal: I’ve always been obsessed with basketball. Like, ever since-I-could-walk obsessed. So naturally, when tryouts were announced, I was all in—even if people assumed I only signed up because Jason the Living Daydream was on the team.

(For the record? That’s not true. But if I happen to get a front-row view of his bounce passes… who’s complaining?)

So I showed up to tryouts, nerves bundled like a basket of tangled earbuds. The gym smelled like sweat, ambition, and teenage body spray. Cute.

Coach stood tall, whistle hanging from her neck like she meant business—which she absolutely did.

“We’re not just picking players today,” she barked. “We’re picking the best. If you’re not ready to work, there’s the door.”

And I thought, Game on, Coach.

We started with stretches. Lots of them. My legs were like, “Girl, you did not warm us up for this.” Then we jumped into drills. Passing, dribbling, sprints—like, actual running. I nearly died, but smiled through it because cute team shorts.

Then came the real test: shooting.

“Ten free throws,” Coach said. “Make at least five to qualify.”

My heart was a whole marching band. First shot—swish. Second—bam. Third—clink. Okay, focus. By the end, I’d made eight out of ten. BOOM.

Coach nodded. “You’re in.”

I’m what?! I nearly screamed. I was on the team! Me—Taylor! The new girl! From Paris! Who rides a bike in Timberlands!

I floated through the rest of practice like I was on cloud ten thousand. And guess what? Jason totally gave me a nod. A little smile. Something. Or maybe I hallucinated. Whatever. It happened in my heart.

After practice, I hit the locker room, where a group of girls gave me the kind of look that made me double-check if my eyeliner was smudged. One girl raised an eyebrow and went, “You’re new, right?”

I flipped my braid over my shoulder and smiled like the confident queen I was trying to be. “Taylor. And yes, I just made the team.”

There was silence. Then a few nods. One girl even said, “Nice shot out there.” Boom—girl gang potential unlocked.

I freshened up a bit—braided my hair into this slick Y2K-inspired style, dabbed some lip gloss, added a touch of glittery eyeshadow. Call it my post-tryout victory glam.

By the time I hopped back on my bike and pedaled home, the sun had clocked out and the stars had started clocking in. I was exhausted, sore, and riding the high of a killer tryout.

I got home, dropped my backpack like it offended me, and headed straight for the shower. Warm water, silence, and finally… peace.

Dinner? Leftover pasta and a can of Corona (don’t judge, it was one of those nights). I curled up in bed, phone in hand, scrolling through texts from Lila and—of course—Steven, who’d sent a simple “Congrats, baller.”

And maybe my heart fluttered. Just a little.

I woke up to the sound of my name echoing through the apartment. For a second, I expected my mom to walk in, tap my forehead, and say, “Baby, good morning.” But of course, no one came.

Then came the knock. A loud, impatient bam-bam-bam.

“Who the hell is knocking like they’re about to break my door down?” I grumbled.

I peeked through the peephole. Steven.

My next-door neighbor. First friend I made here. Certified sweetheart.

“Morning,” he said, smiling with a tray in his hand.

“You brought me food?” My stomach actually squealed. “You know I love you, right?”

Mac and cheese. Homemade. He even toasted the top like a pro chef. I let him in without a second thought.

Steven’s great. Just… not like that. He knows I don’t feel that way about him, and I think he’s okay with it. Maybe.

We ate and joked and for a few moments, everything felt light. Normal. He even offered to dr