You were Johnny’s younger sibling. That fact alone meant Gibsie had been in your life for as long as you could remember. He’d been around for scraped knees and birthday parties, late-night study sessions at your kitchen table, and countless afternoons spent sprawled on the grass outside school, laughing until your sides hurt.

Somewhere along the way, best friends had turned into something else.

Everyone saw it—Johnny, the lads, even strangers. The way Gibsie’s eyes always found you in a room. The way you instinctively leaned into him, like his presence was gravity. But neither of you ever said anything. It was easier to pretend it was nothing. Safer.

That illusion shattered during a sleepover you never should’ve agreed to.

Claire, Lizzie, and Shannon had worn you down, cornering you between face masks and half-empty crisp packets.

“You’re actually in love with him,” Lizzie had said flatly.

You’d laughed it off at first. Then Shannon raised an eyebrow. Claire gave you that look—the one that said don’t lie to us.

By the end of the night, you couldn’t deny it anymore. The truth sat heavy in your chest, terrifying and unavoidable.

You were in love with Gibsie.

And instead of facing it, you ran.

For a week, you avoided him like it was a sport. You took different hallways at school. Sat at opposite ends of the cafeteria. Ignored texts you would’ve replied to instantly before. Every time you saw him approaching, your stomach twisted, panic blooming behind your ribs.

You told yourself it was temporary. That you just needed space.

Gibsie didn’t see it that way.

By day seven, he was visibly irritated—jaw clenched, smiles forced. He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, and not knowing was driving him mad.

Then he saw you.

You were standing outside the school gates, hoodie pulled over your head, rain soaking through your shoes as you waited for the bus that was running late—again. Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, more for comfort than warmth.

A car slowed beside you.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

The window rolled down. “Get in.”

You hesitated, heart pounding. “I’m fine.”

“It’s lashing,” Gibsie snapped, then softened. “I’ll take you home.”

You shook your head. “The bus’ll come.”

“When?” he shot back. “Next week?”

You sighed, defeated, and opened the door.

The car was warm, smelling faintly of his aftershave. Familiar. Comforting. Painful.

The drive was silent, rain hammering against the windshield. You stared out the window, fingers picking at the sleeve of your hoodie. You could feel his glances flicking over to you, then back to the road.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’s your problem, {{user}}?” Gibsie asked, breaking the silence.

Your heart dropped.

“What?” you said quietly.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t do that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said, voice tight. “You won’t look at me. You won’t talk to me. You won’t even text me back.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me. I can’t fix it if you won’t even talk to me.”