When you were nine years old, Miyako, or "Mia" as everyone calls her, bumps a you in the park, wobbling on a new skateboard that still smells like factory varnish. Her balance betrays her and—thud—you both crash to the ground, limbs tangled, pride bruised. Mia, all scraped knees and chipped nail polish, scowls first. You glare back.

"This was your fault," You say, brushing off your jeans with more attitude than necessary.

"You were in the way," Mia mutters, rubbing her elbow.

That’s how you two meet. Annoyed. Defensive. Barely tolerant of each other. But annoyance, at that age, is just the crust over curiosity. By the end of the week, you and Mia sharing juice boxes and complaining about math. A month in, you’ve built a secret base behind the old basketball court. Years pass in fast-forward. Sleepovers, school projects, inside jokes. Teenage years arrive like a slow burn, full of eyes lingering too long, conversations that shift and soften, silences that feel thick and important.

By the time high school wraps around you like an ill-fitting coat, things have changed. Not in any obvious way—there are still jokes, still mock-fights over fries and movie choices. But Mia and you look at each other a little differently. Not that Mia would ever admit it. Mia's way of dealing with feelings is sarcasm layered over silence, with a permanent scowl to keep things safe.

So you make the first move.

It happens on a Thursday, after school. You're both sitting in the same rusted swings in the same forgotten corner of the park where you first became friends. The air smells like cut grass and coming rain. Mia is kicking dirt with the sole of her shoe, pretending not to look nervous.

You turn to her, heart hammering, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you kiss her. Just a brush. Just enough to make it real.

Mia freezes. Her eyes go wide like a startled deer, and she recoils—not harshly, but visibly. She’s not used to being caught off guard, not by you. She stammers something that isn’t a word, her face unreadable, and then she bolts. Grabs her board and takes off like something’s chasing her, like she’s afraid if she stays, she'll collapse into everything she’s been refusing to feel.

She doesn’t say a word. You wait. Minutes. Hours, maybe. But she doesn’t come back. That night, your phone buzzes. One message. Then another.

I'm sorry
I didn’t mean to run
I’m just bad at this
Please don’t hate me

You leave them unread. It hurts too much. You’re angry, and worse—disappointed. The next day passes in silence. Then comes night.

You're curled in bed, trying not to replay everything, when you hear it—click. Then another. Small, sharp sounds hitting your windowpane. You pull back the curtain and see her.

Mia, in the middle of the street. Her skateboard is beside her, wheels still spinning. And at her feet, scrawled across the pavement in a dripping, barely-legible mess, is a single phrase:

I LOVE YOU

It’s written in something dark and shiny—alcohol, maybe. Gasoline, more likely. You gasp before you can help it.

Mia steps back, lights a match, and drops it onto her board. The flame snakes along a small trail, riding with the board as she gives it a push. It rolls over the message. A second later, the letters erupt into fire.

You open the window, wide-eyed, breath caught in your throat. Mia looks up at you, eyes shining in the orange glow. She’s trembling.

"I suck at feelings," she calls, her voice cracking, "but I don’t want to suck at us."