The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Dylan POV:

Confessing to a girl you’ve been pining over is supposed to go one of four ways. She says yes and you celebrate, she says no and you move on (eventually), she stays silent and leaves you in an agonizing limbo, or she avoids you like you’ve sprouted a second head. What doesn’t usually happen? Getting lashed out at like you’ve just kicked her puppy.

Confessing to Ella wasn’t something I decided on a whim. I’d been thinking about it for weeks, maybe even months, building up the courage to finally tell her. I figured it was better to get it out in the open than to keep tiptoeing around my feelings. What was the worst that could happen, right?

Wrong.

I thought confessing would maybe soften her stance toward me, at least a little. Ella was always sharp with her words—sarcastic, sassy, and sometimes downright brutal. But I’d seen glimpses of the softer side she kept hidden, and I thought if I laid it all out there, she’d at least respond with a little more kindness.

But, of course, this was Ella. And Ella never did anything by the book.

It started earlier that day. I had worked up every ounce of courage I had to tell her how I felt. Heart hammering, palms sweaty—hell, I even rehearsed it in the mirror a few times, which was as embarrassing as it sounds.

The moment I saw her, all that confidence I’d been trying to muster took a nosedive. She looked so effortlessly gorgeous, not in the dressed-up way, but in the way that makes your breath catch because you realize that, yeah, she’s the one. It was then I knew I was doomed.

Cue the world’s worst timing.

Before she could even respond, the librarian swoop in, looking like she’d just wandered into a live grenade zone. Ella didn’t get the chance to say a word—she just stared at me. And let me tell you, that stare did not scream "romantic connection." It was more like she was trying to figure out if I was joking or just clinically insane. So, yeah, that didn’t exactly boost my confidence.

But I wasn’t ready for what came later.

When Max and I came by later, I knew immediately something was off. Ella looked like a storm cloud, and her mood hit us like a freight train. Not just any mood—she was angry. I don’t know what happened between the school and the diner, but she was not the Ella I knew. This wasn’t the sassy, sometimes sharp-tongued girl who secretly had a soft side. No, this was the Ella who had clearly been having the day from hell and decided to channel all her frustration at me.

And I took it.

She lashed out, her words sharp and cutting. Not cruel, but definitely biting. The worst part? She didn’t even acknowledge what I’d said earlier. No "thanks but no thanks," no awkward "we’re better as friends." Just pure, unfiltered annoyance. Max, poor guy, stood there like a deer caught in headlights. By the time she was done, he barely managed a "see you later, man" before retreating to safety.

I couldn’t blame him. Facing Angry Ella was like walking into a lion’s den with a steak tied around your neck.

And me? Well, I stayed. Because I’m an idiot, apparently.

Still, I kept telling myself that Ella had her moments. She wasn’t usually this mean. Sure, she wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but she was sassy in a way that made you want to roll your eyes and smile at the same time. She could be blunt, but she wasn’t cruel. At least, not until that dinner.

The worst part? I wasn’t just embarrassed—I was hurt. I didn’t expect her to jump into my arms or anything, but I also didn’t expect to feel like I’d been sucker-punched. Guys don’t confess their feelings expecting rainbows and roses, but at the very least, we hope for a simple yes, no, or even awkward silence.

What I got was a verbal battering.

After she left, I stood there for a while, feeling...disappointed, mostly. Not in her—I could never be disappointed in her—but in myself. I’d thought confessing would at least get me something. Closure, maybe. Or even rejection—I could handle rejection. What I couldn’t handle was the void she left behind when she stormed off, taking any hope I had with her.

I know Ella. I know she wasn’t lashing out at me because of what I said. It was probably something else entirely, something she wasn’t ready to talk about. But it still stung. I mean, I’m only human. You don’t pour your heart out to someone and expect to walk away unscathed when they barely acknowledge it.

I left that dinner feeling disappointed, humiliated, and honestly, a little heartbroken. I tried telling myself it wasn’t about me—that maybe she was just having a bad day or dealing with something else. But the sting of her words lingered, and no amount of reasoning could make it go away.

Looking back, I wish I’d chosen a better time—or better yet, kept my feelings to myself. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like I’d been crushed under the weight of her anger.

But that’s the thing about liking someone, isn’t it? You take the risk, knowing full well it might blow up in your face. And for me, it did. Spectacularly.

Now, here I am, nursing a bruised ego and wondering if I made the right call. Maybe I should’ve waited. Maybe I should’ve picked a better moment. Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut altogether. But then again, if I hadn’t said anything, I’d still be sitting in silence, wishing for something that might never happen. At least now I know where I stand. Sort of. Maybe.

I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I’ll give her space. Maybe I’ll try to talk to her again. Or maybe I’ll just let it go, even though the thought of letting her go feels like ripping my own heart out. Whatever happens, one thing’s for sure—I’m going to be replaying this disaster in my head for a long time.

MAX POV:

The second Ella lashed out at us in the diner, I knew exactly what kind of day it was.

You see, I’ve lived with my sister long enough to spot the warning signs. There’s this unmistakable shift in mood, a storm brewing behind their eyes, and the sharpness in their words could cut steel. It’s not just a bad mood; it’s a danger zone. And trust me, you don’t want to wander into it unprepared.

Ella wasn’t just annoyed—she was on fire. The kind of fire you can’t put out, only survive. Poor Dylan, though? He walked straight into the flames.

The second she started tearing into him, I knew the best move was to keep my mouth shut. Rule number one when dealing with a girl in this state: do not engage. Anything you say—even if it’s as harmless as "the weather looks nice today"—can and will be used to blow up in your face.

My sister taught me that the hard way. Whenever she’s in this state, I go into full "good brother" mode. I agree with everything, stay out of her way, and bring her chocolate. Lots of chocolate. It’s a survival mechanism at this point.

But back to Ella.

The moment she snapped, I decided to play it smart. I scarfed down my food as fast as humanly possible, nodded along like an obedient soldier, and made my escape. "See you later, man," I mumbled to Dylan, leaving him to fend for himself. Sorry, buddy, but self-preservation comes first.

Once I was out of the diner, I went straight to the nearest store to grab some chocolate. You might think, Why go out of your way for someone who just lit you up like a Christmas tree? But come on. It’s Ella. You all know I like her. Plus, it’s not like anyone chooses to feel like that. It’s just biology doing its cruel, mysterious thing.

Besides, I’d do it for anyone in her situation.

It’s not like she woke up and decided, Hey, I think I’ll make Max and Dylan’s day hell today. And it’s definitely not like she chose to deal with cramps, mood swings, and whatever else girls go through during that time. If anything, she’s the one with the short end of the stick.

So yeah, I grabbed the chocolate and headed back, hoping it might smooth things over. Was I nervous? Sure. But what can I say? I’m a sucker for her, even when she’s downright scary.

And if I’ve learned anything from surviving years with my sister, it’s this: chocolate is the ultimate peace offering.

By the time I got to the diner with the chocolate in hand, it was already too late. Ella was gone. Her shift had apparently ended, and she’d left.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where she’d been earlier, feeling a mix of disappointment and helplessness. I didn’t know exactly where she lived, so there was no way for me to follow her or check up on her. Not that following someone like Ella unannounced wouldn’t end with me getting a frying pan thrown at my head.

Still, I felt bad. It was clear she wasn’t feeling great, and yeah, she’d snapped at us, but I couldn’t hold it against her. Not when I understood the situation.

So, with no other option, I turned back and headed home, the chocolate still in my bag. As I walked, I started planning how I’d give it to her the next day—assuming she even came to school. Knowing Ella, she might just skip, especially if she wasn’t feeling great.

But I hoped she’d show up. Not just so I could give her the chocolate, but because I genuinely wanted to make sure she was okay. Seeing her like that at the diner—angry, frustrated, and clearly not herself—had thrown me off. I hated feeling like there was nothing I could do in the moment.

Sure, there was a part of me that just wanted to check on her, but there was also this selfish part that wanted to see her face light up when I handed her the chocolate.

When I got home, I stashed the chocolate somewhere safe, already imagining the sarcastic comment she’d make when I handed it to her. Something like, "What, you think a couple of chocolate bars will fix everything?" But I knew Ella well enough to catch the small smile she’d try to hide afterward.

Because even if she acted tough, I knew she appreciated the little things.

So yeah, I’d give it to her tomorrow. And if she didn’t show up? Well, I’d find another way. You don’t just leave someone like Ella hanging—not when you care about them as much as I do.