Walmart hums under flickering fluorescents. The air smells like popcorn oil, burnt rubber, and summer sweat. Travis King pushes a cart he doesn’t need, rolling one wheel that wobbles and sings like it’s got a secret. He’s not high, not really—just floating a little from earlier, the world softened at the edges like a sepia filter from a Motorola Razr.

And then he sees her. You.

You’re wearing a skirt he’s seen in choir, paired with a hoodie that swallows you whole. Your cart’s half-full—half-forgotten groceries, lip balm, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and a shampoo he’s absolutely going to remember the smell of. Travis veers a bit too hard into the end of the aisle, ducks behind a chip rack like some cartoon idiot spy.

He watches you, heart kickstarting like an old lawn mower. You’re picking out razors. Then lotion. Then socks with little angels on them. It’s stupid. It’s perfect.

He trails a few paces back, pretending to be interested in a tower of Monster Energy drinks. You hum quietly, not knowing he’s there. He knows that song—it’s the same one you sang during that mass in sophomore year when his crush on you turned full canon.

You grab cherry lip gloss. His brain combusts a little.

He debates it—go up to you? Say hi? Play it cool? Drop a dumb line about the cereal? His hands are sweaty on the cart handle.

You turn the corner.