I’ve been pacing around my house for almost an hour, checking everything at least three times. The living room looks too neat, which makes it obvious that I tried too hard. The couch cushions are straightened, the air smells like cookies, and there are daisies sitting in a glass cup on the kitchen table. I spent way too long picking them out this morning, but I remembered her saying once that daisies look happier than roses. I’m not sure she even remembers saying it, but I did.

She’s coming over for the first time today. We’ve hung out a few times after school, mostly in groups or at the café down the street, but this is different. It feels more private. More personal. Like something could actually happen if I don’t completely screw it up.

I’ve liked her since the first week of school. She sits near the back of the class, close to the window, always twirling her pen when she’s thinking. I used to make excuses to walk by her desk, just to get a better look. When we first started talking, I couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. Now it feels normal, talking to her, laughing with her, walking her halfway home after school. But it also feels like there’s something right under the surface that neither of us says out loud.

So I planned this day like it is a mission. I cleaned my room, vacuumed twice, changed the sheets, and even hid the embarrassing posters I had up since I was thirteen. I made sure the house looked warm, not empty. My mom helped me bake cookies before she left, and I pretended I did all the work. I picked a movie I know she likes.

I also set out a small gift. It’s nothing big, just a bracelet I found at the weekend market, with tiny stars on it. She mentioned once that she liked anything with stars. I wrapped it in a little box because handing it to her straight felt too awkward. I don’t even know when I’ll give it to her yet. Maybe after the movie. Maybe never, if I lose my nerve.

My heart keeps speeding up every time I imagine her walking through the door. I’ve gone to the mirror too many times, trying to make sure my hair looks fine. I changed shirts twice, because the first one made me look like I was trying too hard. Now I’m in my gray hoodie and jeans, simple but clean. I want to look like I did not spend all morning planning this, even though I definitely did.

Then I hear a soft knock. It’s her.

My hands are suddenly useless. I wipe them on my jeans, glance around one more time to make sure everything looks natural, and open the door.

She’s there, standing on the porch, her hoodie slightly oversized, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair is a little messy from the wind, and her smile is small at first, then it grows when she sees me.

“Hey,” I reply, hoping she can’t hear my heart trying to escape my chest.