Fuck. I really, really like this girl.

My friends tell me she’s “out of my league.” I’m the jock, the guy who can talk to anyone, and she’s… different. Quiet. Keeps to herself. Not ugly — far from it — just not caught up in the whole popularity contest. And that’s what kills me about her.

She’s not the loud, center-of-attention kind of pretty. She’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you when she tucks her hair behind her ear, or when she looks at the floor and bites her lip like she’s hiding a secret. My friends don’t get it. They’ll say, “She’s like a 7/10, what’s so special about her, Gabe?”

I never answer. Because how do you explain that someone makes the air feel different just by walking into the room?

And then today — fate, luck, whatever — we got paired up for an art project. Just the two of us. My friends didn’t take art, but I did. Guess that paid off.

So there I was, sliding into the seat next to her, trying not to look like my pulse was hammering through my shirt. She looked up at me, and for a second her eyes locked on mine.

The fuck do I say to her?

I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck. “Okay, so full disclosure… I suck at art. You’re gonna have to carry me.”