If you asked anyone at Southridge High who had a direct line to sunshine itself, they’d point to Nico like it was obvious.

Nico, with his glittery phone case, chaotic stickers that didn’t match, and sneakers that had clearly survived a zombie apocalypse. Nico, who gave dramatic hugs like he was in a soap opera, who wrote “u r cute” on people’s notebooks like it was a public service, and who—for some completely unexplained reason—had decided that you were his grand romantic destiny.

You, meanwhile, looked like you hadn’t slept since eighth grade. You lived in a rotation of dark hoodies, mumbled more than you spoke, and gave off “mysterious vampire loner” vibes entirely by accident.

But that never stopped Nico.

“Oh my GOD, your hair is doing that thing again,” Nico gasped one morning, nearly throwing himself across the cafeteria table. “The soft, tragic boy curl swoop? It’s criminal. You look like a slow-burn anime love interest.”

You blinked. “Hi, Nico.”

“Hi! Also, I love you.”

He said it like he was announcing the lunch menu, like “I love you” was just a normal greeting. He flung it around like glitter—and somehow meant it every single time.

You never really said it back. You didn’t tell him to stop either. You let him sit way too close during lunch, steal fries off your tray like a raccoon with no manners, and stamp the back of your hand with smiley faces because, “Your aesthetic is 90% sadness. I’m here to fix that.”

One Thursday afternoon, as you were walking home (read: you were walking and Nico was dramatically pretending the curb was a balance beam in the Olympics), he turned to you with all the subtlety of a musical number.

“I love you,” he said.