I Chose The GPA Over The Genius Chapter 1

I’ve known one thing since I was old enough to know anything at all: I was the Heroine, and Rhys Maxwell, my brilliant, perpetually-scowling boy-next-door, was the Hero.

The captions floating in my periphery—the ones only I could see, a constant, shimmering overlay I called The Script—always told the same story: ‘The clueless ingénue and the genius scholar.’ ‘They are literally endgame. Total OTP material.’

Egged on by a thousand digital whispers of ‘Ship them!’ and ‘Such a vibe!’ I’d been Rhys’s shadow, his devoted little barnacle, for years.

Until today, when I found a box of emergency contraception tucked deep inside his backpack.

The Script would tell me, as it always did, that this was just a massive misunderstanding.

But I was tired of being the girl who always understood. I decided, right then, that I was done loving Rhys Maxwell.

* * *

The box of birth control was lying there, stark white and unforgiving, when I pulled open Rhys’s travel bag.

I replayed his words in my head—the ones he’d delivered after our last fumbling kiss, his breath minty and cool: "Wren, we’re still young. Some things should wait until we’ve thought them through."

So, if we were still waiting, who was he planning to not wait with?

The Script went ballistic. The text became huge, blinding: 'Here we go! Time for the angst arc!' 'Don't be mad, sweetie! It's totally a misunderstanding! Rhys only has eyes for you!'

I held the small box, my expression a confusing blank slate of shock and exhaustion. I considered shoving it back in, pretending I’d never seen it, but then Rhys, fresh out of the shower and smelling of pine and academic stress, emerged from his bedroom.

“It’s for Sylvie, the Senior Research Fellow,” he sighed, running a tired hand over his wet hair. “The pressure on the computational chemistry project is killing her. She’s been having debilitating cycles and can barely function in the lab. I spoke to the university clinic—this might help regulate things. I was going to drop it off tomorrow.”

He took the box from my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and slid it into a hidden zipper pouch in his pack.

“There’s nothing going on between us, Wren,” he insisted. “Just professional courtesy between lab partners. I know how much you overthink things.”

His voice was heavy with a profound fatigue that felt less about the lab work and more about fighting with me. We’d had too many arguments about Sylvie; too many explosive scenes fueled by my insecurity.

“It’s true, little sis! I swear, Rhys hasn't done anything with Sylvie!” The Script screamed in my vision. 'Don't let this misunderstanding ruin things! Fighting is so destructive!'

I nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. I looked him in the eye, and for the first time in my life, I lied to Rhys Maxwell.

“I believe you.”

The dramatic shift in my demeanor—the lack of tears or yelling—actually made him pause, his disbelief visible.

I sealed the zipper, closing off the pills, the argument, and the Script’s frenzied pleas. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. Your mom—Aunt Eliza—just asked me to check if you packed your chargers for the research seminar trip.”

I turned to grab the clothes he needed, anything to break eye contact and put distance between us.

“No—wait—I didn’t say you were snooping. You can…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, and I kept my back to him, deliberately missing the bewildered, slightly wounded look on his face.