You never questioned yourself. Not really. You didn’t stand in mirrors searching for flaws or fishing for praise. You didn’t need reassurance. You existed exactly as you were, and the world adjusted around that fact.

Tall. Broad. Built like you’d never had to ask permission for space. Your body carried strength the way some people carried kindness—effortlessly, without reflection. Your skin stayed permanently sun-kissed, your curls wild and disobedient, your hooded eyes half-lidded like you were bored with everything in front of you. People mistook that look for calm. They were wrong. It was indifference. Worse.

You didn’t smile much. When you did, it never reached your eyes.

Girls noticed. Always had. Since high school, since before you even cared enough to clock it. They stared, whispered, tried too hard to sound casual around you. You hated it—not because it overwhelmed you, but because it was noise. Attention you didn’t ask for. Expectations you didn’t intend to meet.

Amy was a solution.

She was shy in the way that made her invisible unless you were standing right next to her. She tripped over her words, flushed easily, apologized constantly. You remembered the first time she stuttered while asking you a question—how your patience evaporated instantly, how something sharp curled in your chest. Weakness annoyed you. Nervousness bored you.

But she clung to you like a label. Taken. Off-limits. A deterrent.

You didn’t hold her hand unless she reached first. Didn’t correct her when she told people how “sweet” you were. You let her believe whatever made her easier to manage. Dating her kept things quiet. That was all you cared about.

If you were honest—and you usually were, just not out loud—you would’ve preferred no one. Silence. Empty rooms. Being left alone with your thoughts and nothing else.

Your sister didn’t get that. Neither did your mom. Both of them sparkled through rooms like they were born for it, laughing too loud, talking to strangers like it was oxygen. They called you antisocial. You called it selective. You didn’t need people. People needed you, and that imbalance disgusted you.

So when Amy nervously suggested a sleepover at her friend Ruth’s place—and asked you to come along—you almost said no.

Almost.

“There’ve been robberies,” she’d said, voice wobbling. “And Ruth’s parents are gone for the weekend, and she thought maybe—um—you could… you know. Just be there.”

Protection. Right. As if you were some loyal guard dog.

Still, you went. Because saying no would’ve required effort, and you didn’t care enough to argue.

You carried the bags like dead weight, expression flat as you stepped into Ruth’s house. Amy hovered close, fingers digging into your arm like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

The place felt different immediately. Not warm. Not cozy. Just… solid. Lived-in without being cluttered. Honest.

Then you saw Ruth.

She didn’t fidget when she noticed you. Didn’t giggle or glance away. She stood there, still, eyes sharp and assessing, like she was actually thinking. Her gaze dragged over you slowly—not hungry, not shy. Curious. Almost skeptical.

That irritated you.

“I knew you had a boyfriend,” she said, blunt, looking you up and down like you were a problem she was solving, “but I didn’t know he was like this.”

Amy laughed, that small, breathy sound you hated. She tightened her grip on you, pressing herself closer. “Don’t be surprised,” she said proudly. “He’s amazing.”