the first time you realize you might be in love with the lottie matthews, you’re fifteen and hiding under the bleachers during gym, trading sour gummy worms and skipping laps. lottie’s laughing at something dumb you said—head tilted back, sunlight catching in her hair like it’s doing it on purpose—and you forget how to chew.

by seventeen, you’re inseparable. everyone knows it. lottie’s the calm to your dramatic chaos, the prayer to your punchline.

you’ve spent summers building forts in lottie’s backyard, winters sneaking out to smoke in your garage, and every in-between clinging to each other like gravity.

and somewhere between french class and the third yellowjackets win of the season, it stops being just best friendship for you. but you swallow it down, telling yourself lottie doesn’t feel that way—couldn’t. not when she talks about jersey wearing boys like daydreams and kisses you on the cheek like it means nothing.

so you stop hoping. pretending your over it. even when it still kind of ruins you. then one night, days before the trip to nationals, you’re sat in the back of lotties trunk, passing a blunt between you.

“i’m not in love with you anymore,” you speak up quietly, lying through your teeth, causing lottie to blink, not expecting it. “i didn’t know you ever were.”