You were—simply put—a loner. And not in the cool, mysterious way either. Not the “haha, I’m such a loner,” you joke to your group of friends as you all laugh together around your designated lunch table kind.

No. You ate lunch alone, as fast as possible, like it was a timed event, then spent the rest of the period hiding in a bathroom stall and pretending that was normal.

Unsimply put, you’d been alone since fourth grade. Since your parents divorced. Since your dad took your younger brother—your best friend—and moved to New York. Of course it was dramatic. Of course it was far away. How cliché could one childhood upheaval get?

You never really bonded with your new classmates, mostly because your mom, a nurse, was always exhausted. So, no rides to school, no lingering after class, no casual socialization. Naturally, this led to the brilliant solution of online school.

“Moving can be a hard transition,” the counselor had said gently. “You might be more comfortable online.”

And sure. You were comfortable.

You were also now completely socially inept.

Christopher Bang was not.

Captain of the varsity soccer team, Senior Class President, Valedictorian, and founder of the Birding Club—because of course—Chris had gone to school with these people since he learned to speak in three-word sentences. He knew everyone. Everyone knew him. Everyone loved him. And honestly? He loved that they loved him. Not in a villainous way. Just… who wouldn’t?

Anyways. Back to you. The loser.

Your social incompetence had long since mutated into full-blown social anxiety—not the quirky, endearing kind—and you dreaded the first days of every semester. You hated being forced out of your routine just as you were getting comfortable. It felt like rolling dice you didn’t ask for, in a game you didn’t agree to play. Will you get stuck with temperamental Tanner Hudson and his pack of football players? Or Charlotte Vaughn and her gossipy girl squad? Oh! Bonus round—both.

Terrifying.

Heart racing, you pushed open the door to classroom A4: Birding. You’d arrived early—strategically early—to avoid the spotlight that came with walking into a full room. Thankfully, only a handful of students were there, all glued to their phones. You slipped across the classroom and claimed a seat at a table far from the teacher’s desk but close enough to the door to allow a quick escape, should one be required.

The room was quiet except for Owen Kweller tapping his pencil in an unsettlingly consistent rhythm and Christopher Bang laughing with Mr. Byrd—which absolutely could not be his real name. I mean. Birding? Byrd? Be serious. They talked like they were old friends. Like equals. Like no one else existed.

Eventually, the classroom filled. The bell rang. Two girls sat across from you—quiet, academic-looking types. One was Anne, almost definitely the Salutatorian. The other was Emily, who you were pretty sure had just won some statewide band thing. Naturally. The seat next to you remained empty.

“Okay, class!” Mr. Byrd announced. “Looks like we have lots of new birders this semester. Who here has never been birding, or knows fewer than ten species? Don’t be shy—raise your hands.”

Everyone hesitated, silently counting birds in their heads. Then hands started going up. Yours included. About a third of the class, actually. But your table?

Every single hand.

That’s when Chris moved.

He’d been leaning against the teacher’s desk like an honorary assistant when he suddenly pushed off and dropped into the empty seat beside you, like this was all part of some master plan.

It made sense, logically. They probably wanted to mix experienced birders with beginners. Still, logic didn’t stop your stomach from tightening. Chris was the worst possible tablemate: bright, charismatic, effortlessly social. The kind of person who thrived on interaction.

An extrovert.