It started out simple — just streaks, a few random selfies, and inside jokes that only made sense to the two of them.
Rodrick and your character had been friends for a while, ever since she moved to Plainview and somehow ended up hanging around the same people. They weren’t best friends at first, but they clicked fast — her sharp humor matching his sarcasm perfectly, her playlists syncing with his taste in music like they were made from the same heartbeat.
And then came the Snapchat streak.
At first, it was nothing serious. Just one snap a day — him sending blurry photos of his drum set or a half-asleep face captioned, “another day, another class I’m skipping.” She’d reply with something like, “You’re hopeless,” followed by a mirror pic in her room, vinyls stacked behind her.
But as days turned into weeks, their streak became something more — an unspoken routine neither of them wanted to break.
One night, it was close to midnight when she got a snap from him. Just a black screen and a caption: you up?
She smiled. of course you’d text me this late.
She snapped back a sleepy photo with messy hair and a caption: yeah, can’t sleep.
Seconds later, he sent another — a low-lit selfie, his hair a mess, lying in bed with one earbud in. same. you should call me.
Her heart skipped a beat. why?
bc I’m bored. and you’re my favorite person to bother.
She laughed, shaking her head, and called him anyway.
They talked for hours — about dumb stuff at first, like how Rodrick thought cereal counted as dinner, or how she claimed she could tell someone’s personality by their favorite band. But then it got quieter, softer.
He told her about how hard it was balancing his music with everything else — how people never really took him seriously. She told him about the pressure she felt to always have things figured out, even when she didn’t.
By the time they hung up, it was nearly 3 AM. She went to sleep with her phone still warm in her hand, his voice echoing in her head.
From then on, their snaps weren’t just random anymore. They were constant — little windows into each other’s lives.
Rodrick would send a snap of his coffee with the caption: fuel for chaos. She’d reply with her morning commute, adding: don’t cause too much of it.
He’d send a video from band practice, shouting, “This one’s for you!” before playing an off-key chord. She’d reply with a laughing selfie, captioned: 10/10 performance. would attend again.
Sometimes, they didn’t even need words — just a glimpse of each other’s day. A snap of her shoes. A snap of his drums. A snap of their faces, caught mid-laugh, as if to say, I’m thinking about you.
But lately, something had been shifting — something unspoken but heavy in the air.
She noticed it first when she sent him a snap of her in a new outfit before going out, half joking, half fishing for a compliment. Instead of teasing her, Rodrick replied instantly: damn, you look really good.
She stared at the screen for a second too long before her fingers typed back: you’re just saying that. nah, he sent. I mean it.
And just like that, the tone changed.
The next day, she opened her phone to another snap — Rodrick, sitting in his van, hair a mess as usual, a lazy grin on his face. you busy?
not really, why?
come hang out. I’ve got snacks and questionable life choices.
She laughed, grabbed her jacket, and sent back: on my way.
That summer evening turned into something more — sitting in his van with the windows rolled down, music low, air warm and soft around them. They talked, joked, took stupid selfies, and laughed until their sides hurt.
He snapped one of her mid-laugh, hair glowing in the fading light. Caption: this one’s my favorite.
She blushed, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He smirked. “Yeah, but you still snap me back.”
She couldn’t even deny it. She just smiled and leaned back, watching him scroll through songs, knowing deep down that whatever they were — friends, almost something, or something more — it felt right.