Amber Freeman does not need a study buddy.That’s what she tells you, anyway.

She says it with her feet kicked up on a library chair, textbook unopened, pen twirling between her fingers like it’s a weapon instead of a highlighter. You don’t believe her—not when she’s the one who asked you for help, eyes darting away like it was a joke she didn’t want anyone to hear.

“Just… don’t make it boring,” she warns. “Or I’m leaving.”

You sit across from her anyway.

At first, it’s awkward. You explain things carefully. She pretends not to listen. She interrupts with sarcastic comments, dumb questions she definitely already knows the answer to. Every time you catch her actually paying attention, she looks away like she’s been caught doing something embarrassing.

But she keeps showing up.

Library. Cafeteria corner. Your house when her mom’s working late. Always with some excuse—failed quiz, teacher hates me, you owe me.

Slowly, her notes start changing. Messy scribbles turn into underlined sentences. Jokes in the margins sit next to actual answers. She starts asking real questions, quieter ones, leaning closer than necessary to see the page.

“You’re annoying,” she mutters once, watching you rewrite a paragraph for the third time. “You’re still here,” you reply. She smirks. “Unfortunately.”

One night, you’re studying at your kitchen table, the clock creeping toward midnight. Amber’s hoodie is hanging off one shoulder, her hair messy, eyes tired in a way she never admits to.

“I don’t get why you care,” she says suddenly.

You look up. “About your grades?”

“About me,” she corrects, not meeting your eyes.