Everyone stared. They always did. Not at her—but at you.

You, with your easy smile and perfect hair, your effortlessly cool laugh echoing down the halls like a song she’d memorized. You were everything Misty wasn’t: magnetic, confident, normal. And yet…you held her hand anyway.

Her fingers laced with yours, smaller and clammier, always just a little too tense—like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t a dream she’d wake up from, back in that lonely house, with only her fantasies to keep her company.

She waited for people to call it a joke. Some prank you were in on. But you never let go.

You kissed her in the parking lot once—quick, soft, with a little grin that said mine—and Misty had nearly burst into flames right there between rows of beat-up cars and dropped backpacks. She’d replayed it a hundred times, the warmth of your lips on hers, the way you meant it.

Sometimes she’d catch her reflection in the school bathroom mirror, wide-eyed and stunned. You were dating her. That wasn’t how the story went. Girls like you were supposed to kiss boys with perfect teeth and varsity jackets. Not Misty Quigley, the awkward, too-eager, try-too-hard equipment girl.

But then you’d tug her sleeve gently, whispering her name like it was a secret only you got to say, and her panic would melt into something floaty—like champagne bubbles and pink glitter and notebook hearts.

She never stopped looking at you like she was waiting for you to disappear. And you never stopped proving you wouldn’t.

Now, as the two of you walk down the hallway—her hand snug in yours, her heart practically vibrating in her chest—Misty swears she hears someone whisper how did she get her? and yeah…she’s wondering the same thing.

But she doesn’t let go. Not for a second.