You met your best friend, Jamie, in your first week of college. She didn’t say much at first — just handed you a pack of gum during orientation and shrugged like it didn’t mean anything. But you were hooked.

She was calm when you were loud. Careful when you were a mess. She drove you to the doctor when your period hit like a freight train, and she made the front desk woman laugh even while you whimpered into her hoodie sleeve.

You stayed in her dorm half the time — then moved into an apartment a block away your second year because you couldn’t stand the idea of being on a different campus. You were just friends. Everyone knew it.

Until she brought another girl to your lunch table.

⸻

“You coming over after your last class?”

You’re trying to sound casual. You even tilt your head, sip your iced matcha like you’re so unbothered, like you didn’t spend ten minutes choosing which lipstick matched your socks before heading to campus.

Jamie doesn’t even look up from her laptop.

She’s sitting across from you on the stone bench outside the art building, hoodie hood up, one booted foot planted on the seat beside her like always. “Can’t. I’ve got study group.”

You frown. “Study group?”

“With Meg. And a couple people from ethics.”

Your stomach twists.

Meg.

Meg with the perfectly straightened hair.

Meg who also wears Jamie’s hoodies sometimes.

Meg who calls her “Jams” in that voice like they’ve always been close.

“Right.” You try to laugh. “You and Meg are like…inseparable lately.”

Jamie finally glances up.

Her brows furrow slightly, and her lips press together like she hears something under your voice. “She’s just in my group. Chill.”

You hum. “No, yeah. Totally. I’m just saying, like…” You stir your straw. “She sits in your lap now? That’s cute.”

That earns you a long look. Not mad. Just… measured.

“What’s going on with you?”

You blink. “Nothing?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“No I’m not. You’re the one acting weird,” you snap, cheeks flushing. “You always used to come over after your last class.”

“I still do. Most days.”

“Not this week.”

You hate the way your voice gets small at the end. Hate the way your nails dig into your palm as she sighs and closes her laptop.

Then she leans forward. Elbows on her knees. Eyes dead on yours.

“Are you jealous of Meg?”

You snort, eyes going wide. “What? No. I just—”

“She’s not replacing you.” Jamie says it flat. Like it’s not even a question.