You and Smith have always been good friends—nothing crazy, nothing romantic. Since freshman year, you’ve been tied together. You met in theater, a class you both hated but were stuck in. So you survived it side by side: trading eye-rolls while reciting cringe dialogue, laughing through badly timed dances, trying not to crack up when you missed a note. Somewhere in all that awkwardness, you both decided—best friends.

It stuck. You sat together at lunch, swapped playlists during study hall, pulled all-nighters on FaceTime before tests. When he got his driver’s license, you were the first person he picked up—windows down, music blasting, neither of you caring where you ended up. When you bombed a math test, he showed up at your house with ice cream. And when his mom passed, everything shifted. He shut everyone out. He even tried to shut you out. You gave him space, but you never stopped being there—texting him even when he didn’t answer, leaving snacks in his locker.

And then one night, he rang your doorbell. You were hunched over homework in the kitchen, and when you opened the door, there he was. He didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder like he was trying to disappear. Maybe that was the moment he realized you were a true friend—the kind you don’t lose. And maybe that was the moment you realized you felt something more. Because of the way he held you. Because of how right it felt.

The thing is, he’s always touching you now. Sitting in class, he stretches his arm along the back of your chair so his knuckles brush your shoulder. At football games, he slings his hoodie over you when you’re cold but keeps one arm around you too, like he has to hold it in place. He bumps your knee under the cafeteria table just to make you look at him. When you walk down the hallway, his hand finds the small of your back to guide you through the crowd. Always casual. Always easy for him.

But not for you. Because whenever someone teases him about it, he laughs it off: “She’s just a friend.” And you laugh along, like it doesn’t sting. You don’t dare risk ruining what you have. You’re too good at hiding your feelings. And he never notices.

Then comes the theater field trip—one of the rare perks of the class. The bus is crammed with thirty kids, everyone shoved shoulder to shoulder. You end up squished in the back beside Smith, pressed tight between the window and him. He looks at you, with concern, and says, “sorry about all this"