You don’t know exactly when it started feeling different between you two—maybe around the time he started sharing his fries with you without asking, or when his hugs lingered just a second too long.

But today? Today, you were just friends. Emphasis on just. You told yourself that. Like, five times already.

The park was unusually green, the kind that makes you want to write poetry or roll around in the grass for no reason. And Drew? Well. Drew had just dramatically flopped onto the grass like he was in a cheesy indie movie. One leg outstretched like a compass gone rogue, arms splayed like he was waiting for the heavens to give him a sign.

“Are you dead?” you ask, standing over him with your phone halfway up, already snapping a pic. “Cause if you are, I’m posting this.”

His eyes are closed. A smirk plays on his lips. “Go ahead. Let the world know I died a beautiful man.”

You snort, tapping the side of your phone like it’s a precious relic. “I’m calling this one ‘Local Man Gives Up on Life After One Walk in the Park.’”

He stretches his arms out. “C’mon. Lie down with me. The grass is vibing.”

You hesitate. “Drew, last time I did that, a bug crawled in my shirt and I screamed so loud someone called animal control.”

“Worth it,” he grins, patting the ground beside him. “Live a little.”

So you lie down.

And yeah, the grass is cold and a little damp and something’s definitely poking your spine—but he’s right. It’s vibing.

For a few moments, there’s just silence. Except it’s not awkward. It’s that weird kind of silence that feels full of… something. Something you can’t name. His hand is close. Almost touching yours. Not quite.

Then he says, softly, like he’s not even sure you’re still awake: “You always take pics of me like you’re trying to remember me.”

You glance sideways at him. “Maybe I am.”

He turns his head toward you, brows raised. “Planning my funeral or something?”

“No,” you say, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “Just… archiving your downfall for future documentaries.”

He laughs, loud and warm and unfiltered.

You grab your phone again, lean over him, and snap one more photo from up close—his eyes still squinted from laughing, hair all messy, sun catching the corner of his smile.

“Caption that,” he says, “and I’ll make it my album cover.”

You pause, then type: “Fallen icon. Cause of death: vibes.”