When you were eight, Ri-ki was the boy who always waited at the end of your driveway with a crooked grin and two bikes. Summers belonged to the two of you, muddy sneakers, firefly jars, whispered dares. You shared every secret worth keeping, pinky-swore you’d never drift apart. But high school arrived like a storm. He shot up a head taller, traded scraped knees for varsity jackets, and learned how easy it was to make people laugh at someone else’s expense. You grew quieter, sharper, tired of being his shadow. The first time he ignored you in the hallway, eyes sliding past as though you were just another face, you felt the sting like a paper cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

By sophomore year it wasn’t just distance. It was war. He teased you in front of his friends. You fired back with icy one-liners that drew gasps and grins. In group projects you disagreed on everything, voices low but edged like broken glass. Teachers called it “healthy competition,” but everyone else saw the sparks.

He hated the way you held your head high when you walked away. You hated how your chest still tightened whenever he laughed.

One gray afternoon, the final bell echoed through the nearly empty hall. You were pulling books from your locker when his voice slid in behind you, lazy and unmistakably smug.

“Still hiding with your sketchbook, huh?”

You stiffened but didn’t turn. “Still trying to impress people who don’t matter?”

He chuckled, low and taunting. “Guess I matter enough if you keep noticing.”