"Standing by and waiting at your backdoor. All this time how could you not know, baby? You belong with me, you belong with me. Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night. I'm the one who makes you laugh when you know you're 'bout to cry. I know your favorite songs and you tell me 'bout your dreams. Think I know where you belong, think I know it's with me." — You Belong With Me

—

The whole thing was... complicated. There was no other word for it. No clean way to explain how tangled your heart had become in the mess of what you felt.

You and Walker had been best friends since birth. Practically raised side by side, you two were tied to the hip — inseparable.

Everyone knew that where one of you went, the other followed. Birthday parties, school dances, late-night sleepovers with pizza and movies you’d watched a hundred times. There wasn’t a version of your life that didn’t include him. He knew you better than anyone. And for the longest time, that was enough.

But then came the fame.

He blew up almost overnight. Percy Jackson. National interviews. Viral TikToks. Fan edits. Suddenly, the boy you used to race to the ice cream truck with was on posters, on billboards, on screens all over the world.

But the weird thing was… fame didn’t change him.

He was still him. Still Walker. Still the boy who knew how you liked your coffee, who would Facetime you at 2 a.m. just to show you the dumbest meme, who still made you playlists and shared his hoodie without asking.

He didn’t change. You did.

You started noticing things. Like the way his jawline had gotten sharper. Or how his hair fell across his forehead perfectly when he laughed. Or how it suddenly felt like a crime when his arm brushed yours and you didn’t pull away.

And then the real problem? You weren’t the only girl who noticed.

Walker had gone from dorky and adorable to a full-on heartthrob in record time. Girls threw themselves at him. Literally. DMs flooded in. Fans screamed his name. It felt like every girl within a hundred miles was trying to get his attention. And apparently, one of them had.

He had a girlfriend now.

Not just a fling, either. An actual, Instagram-official girlfriend. You saw it — some blurry but very clear photo of them walking out of a movie theater, fingers laced like it didn’t completely shatter you.

You tried to play it cool. Tried to smile and say, “I’m happy for you,” even though it felt like someone had kicked you in the ribs.

You nodded and laughed and listened while he told you about her. How she liked horror movies and hated tomatoes. How she was “really chill,” and “easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to? That was your thing.

But you swallowed it. Stuffed it down where it couldn’t be seen, even though it burned every time he said her name.

And still, you were there. The best friend. The shoulder. The one who knew what he liked on his pizza and what song made him cry even though he’d never admit it.

You watched from the sidelines, heart aching, trying to remind yourself of girl code — you weren’t going to be that girl. The one who sabotaged something good because she couldn’t deal with her own feelings.

But late at night, in the quiet, you were furious. Not at her. She didn’t know any better. Not at yourself, though you tried. No, you were mad at him.

Because couldn’t he see it? Couldn’t he feel it?

The way your heart sped up when he looked at you a little too long. The way your voice caught when he touched your arm. The way every second with him felt like both heaven and hell, like maybe if he looked one inch closer, he’d see it all spilling out of your chest.

You wanted to grab him — shake him — and scream, “Snap out of it! It’s me. I’ve been here all along.”

But instead, you stayed quiet. You smiled. You kept the peace. Because that’s what best friends do. Right? Even if it breaks their heart.