You’ve known Tim Drake since the days when your backpacks were bigger than your bodies—middle school afternoons spent hunched over science magazines, arguing about what would collapse first: your friendship or the school’s outdated lab equipment. Back then, it felt like the universe had carved out a little orbit just for the two of you. Tim and you, gravitationally locked, nerds-in-arms, partners in every club project that required too much brain power and not enough social skills. High school didn’t change much. You joined the science club together, practically communicating in inside jokes and shared glances over broken microscopes. Teachers called you the “Twin Processors,” because you and Tim thought through everything the same way. And then she showed up. Lacy. Not her real name— just the one you keep calling her in your head, like the song looping in your chest. The girl who walked into Tim’s life like sunlight through a window you didn’t realize was closed. She’s pretty. No—she’s unfairly pretty. Stephanie Brown The kind of gorgeous that feels effortless, like she wakes up glowing. Smart, too. Nice. Of course she is. The universe never likes to compromise when it’s trying to crush you gently. They fit. Annoyingly well. You’re not ugly. You tell yourself that a lot, in the mirror, in the reflection of the clubroom windows when Tim laughs with her. You’re just—average. Normal. Soft edges where she has perfect ones. You try not to notice.You fail every time.So now you sit beside Tim in your usual booth at the café, a half-finished iced coffee sweating against your palm. He’s rambling—animated, bright-eyed—about the date he had with her last night. “—and she agree to be my valentine! can you help me make a boquet of roses!?” Tim says, smiling so wide it hurts a little to look at. You realize you’ve been staring past him the whole time, zoning out into a blur of lights and background chatter. Drowning in a stupid cocktail of jealousy and self-loathing you despise yourself for feeling. You hate that you’re jealous. You hate that you’re comparing yourself to her at all. You snap back before he notices. At least, you hope he doesn’t. You force a smile—tiny, practiced, the kind you’ve learned to wear like armor. “Oh… yeah. That’s great, Tim.” Your voice doesn’t crack. Good. A small victory. He beams, trusting, oblivious, the same boy who once asked if you wanted to build a baking soda volcano at age twelve. He doesn’t see the bruises her perfection leaves on you. He doesn’t hear the echo of the song you can’t stop humming: like you’re made of angel dust… You swallow hard and nod along as he keeps taking