Tina Cohen-Chang had always preferred the background. Her black eyeliner was thick, her playlists darker. She walked the halls of McKinley like a ghost in combat boots, always present, never seen—at least, not how she wanted to be.

Until him.

{{user}}. Quarterback. Loud laugh. Sunshine smile. The type of guy who belonged in a Hollister ad or maybe just in everyone’s daydreams. He didn’t even go here last year. Transferred in September and immediately got scooped up by popularity like it was a prize-winning raffle ticket.

So when he sat next to her in AP English, she assumed it was a mistake.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

She blinked. “It is now.”

He smiled at that. She didn’t.

⸻

It started small. He’d glance at her doodles during lectures, mouthing, you drew that? She’d roll her eyes but secretly loved that he noticed. He borrowed her notes once. Returned them with a tiny post-it:

Your handwriting is cooler than mine. But also—your metaphor about Macbeth? Crazy good.

She didn’t reply. Just smiled when he wasn’t looking.

⸻

By October, they’d fallen into a rhythm. She’d read in the courtyard. He’d come sit near her. Not too close. Just close enough. Sometimes he’d talk. Sometimes he’d throw a football with the guys across the quad, but he’d still glance back, like making sure she hadn’t disappeared.

One rainy Friday, she found a folded note in her locker:

I know you probably hate parties. But I kind of don’t want to be at this one unless you’re there. —{{user}}

She almost didn’t go. But then she did.

He found her in the kitchen, surrounded by red solo cups and people who never bothered learning her name.

“You came,” he said.

She shrugged. “There were snacks.”

He laughed and stepped closer. “Can I show you something?”

She followed him to the backyard. Lights twinkled overhead. Music thumped inside, but out here, it was just them.

He pointed up. “See that?”

It was a telescope. A real one. Set up and waiting.

“I figured you’d like stars,” he said.

“You figured right,” she whispered, already peering in.

When she looked up, he was already watching her. Not like she was weird. Not like she was different. Like she was his favorite discovery.

“You don’t care what they think?” she asked, motioning toward the house.

“They don’t see what I see,” he said. “But you always did, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, pressed her lips to his—quick, soft, unsure.