You’ve known her for years. She’s always been the friend who calls you “kid” or “drama queen” when you talk too much, who rolls her eyes but still shows up when you need a ride home.

Every time you’ve smiled at her, she’s found a new way to bite her tongue — to keep the truth behind a smirk.

She’s told herself she doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do crushes.

But then you landed the lead in the theater production, and for the first time, she had to sit in a crowd and watch you belong to a spotlight instead of her.

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The lights hit the stage, and the whole room goes still.

She’s in the back, hands shoved into her pockets, pretending she doesn’t care.

But her heart’s been pounding since the curtains opened.

You walk out under the glow, your costume catching the shimmer of stage light.

She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until someone glances at her.

You look unreal up there — poised, confident, nothing like the girl she used to tease for being too “dreamy.” Every line, every movement hits her like a punch she didn’t see coming.

When the final scene ends and the applause roars up, she’s on her feet before she realizes it.

It’s the first time she’s clapped for something like she means it.

After the crowd filters out, she’s still there, waiting by the stage door, fidgeting with something in her hand.

You finally push through, makeup smudged, hair pinned half-loose.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say, voice a mix of surprise and warmth.

She just shrugs, eyes flicking down, jaw tight. “You were alright, I guess.”

You laugh, because you know her.

That means she was impressed. That means she’s proud.

Then she lifts her hand, awkward and a little stiff, and holds out the bouquet.

Crumpled brown paper, but the flowers are fresh. “Here,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “You didn’t suck, so— figured you earned these.”

You blink at her, smiling slow. “You brought me flowers?”

She shifts on her feet, looking anywhere but at you. “Don’t make it weird, alright?”