My junior year of college has started out about as awesome as the two years that came before it. And by awesome, I mean an absolute shit show that I’m pretty convinced is part of some reality show I didn’t know I was a part of.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all bad. I have amazing friends. A championship soccer team. The best family a girl could ask for. You’d think with all that, I’d be happy with the way my college experience is going, and I guess in a way, I am. As long as you don’t count the black cloud that has followed me since freshman year in the form of one infuriatingly beautiful man who I’ve been tempted to run over with a car more times than I would ever admit.

Macallan Stewart. Gorgeous. Untouchable. Idolized. Star football player—both on and off the field. Women love him. Men want to be him. And I… Well, I’m too busy trying not to stab pencils into his eye sockets to allow myself to feel anything but anger, which definitely beats the alternative.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to understand why people gravitated toward him. Once upon a time, I was one of those people. That is, until he used me and discarded me like I was nothing. I started this year with a promise to myself—that I was not going to let this man have another second of my energy. Unfortunately, that plan goes straight out the window when my professor randomly selects lab partners and somehow, by the unluckiest draw in the world, I get paired with Macallan.

Working with him turns out to be even harder than I thought. With his cocky smirk and wicked mouth, he’s as frustrating as he is charming. I hate him. I hate his stupid perfect face and his stupid perfect body and everything he stands for. But most of all, I hate how deep down, I’m starting not to hate him at all.

That’s the problem with love and hate—oftentimes only a very thin line separates them and at any given time, you could end up on the opposite side of where you think you’re standing and not even realize it.