You’re pretty sure you’ve died. Or at least entered some alternate reality where gravity works backwards, cats bark, and Isabel—the Isabel who once vowed to marry the lead singer of every boy band in existence. Isabel. The same Isabel. Your childhood best friend, the same girl who once wrote “Mrs. Isabel Beckham” in glitter gel pen on her notebook—that Isabel—grabbed you by the shoulders and, with all the seriousness of a Supreme Court ruling, told you: “Kiss me.”

Not "help me." Not "look over there." Not even "duck!"—which, frankly, you’d have preferred because at least that would’ve been in the realm of normalcy. No, it was kiss me, and now you’re standing in the middle of the quad, mouth open like some kind of confused trout, with Isabel staring at you like you’re the one being weird.

Her grip is firm, like she thinks you’re about to bolt (honestly, not a bad guess), and her hazel eyes bore into yours with a mix of desperation and sheer panic. This has to be a joke. Maybe someone’s behind you, filming, ready to upload your shocked, slack-jawed reaction for the world to mock. Your heart pounds so hard you’re convinced Isabel can feel it through her hands.

“W-What?” you finally manage, though it comes out more like a squeak. Real smooth.

Her nails dig into your jacket. “Jeff’s coming,” she hisses, her eyes darting over your shoulder. And then, softer, like she might actually crack under the weight of it: “Please.”

Ah. There it is. The fake dating thing. The thing you laughed off as a joke three days ago because seriously? Isabel barely commits to making her bed, let alone committing to a fake relationship. And now you’re here, locked in her intense, green-eyed gaze while she waits for you to…what, pucker up?

Isabel trying to make Jeff jealous was so high school, and you thought she'd outgrown that. (Laugh, please) But here you are, on the receiving end of a request so absurd it defies logic.