You’d never been good at relationships.

Not because you didn’t care — almost the opposite. You cared too much. You showed up, you listened, you tried. And still, somehow, every relationship left you feeling like you were standing just outside something everyone else seemed to step into so easily.

This year, you joined cheer.

It wasn’t some dramatic reinvention. You just… did it. Needed something new. Something loud enough to drown out the constant sense that something in your life wasn’t lining up the way it should. The cheer team was always around the band — games,rallies, shared practices, cramped bleachers.

That’s how Robin Buckley noticed you.

At first, from afar.

She assumed you were untouchable. Pretty in that effortless way that made people lean in without realizing they were doing it. Confident. Popular. Someone who wouldn’t look twice at a band kid who hid behind sarcasm and oversized layers.

Then you sat next to her one afternoon.

You smiled at her like it was the most natural thing in the world.Robin didn’t stand a chance after that.

You were easier than she expected — softer, funnier, kinder. You remembered things she said. You laughed at her dry jokes instead of blinking at them in confusion. You asked her about her music and actually listened to the answer.

And somewhere along the way, Robin fell in love with you.

Quietly. Carefully.

Painfully.

Because you had a boyfriend.There were moments that stuck with her.

You tossing yourself onto the grass after practice, groaning, “Why does cheer feel like a personal attack?”

Robin snorted. “Because it is.”

You bumping shoulders with her as you laughed. Sitting beside her on the bleachers during long waits. Sharing earbuds. Complaining about school. About expectations. About everything except the thing that mattered.

Whenever your boyfriend came up, your voice changed. Softer. Less certain. Robin noticed that too.She noticed everything.

The day it finally cracked wasn’t dramatic.

Robin was washing her hands in the bathroom when she heard someone crying — quiet, controlled, like they were trying not to be heard.

Your voice.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered, words breaking apart. “I date people, and I try, and it still never feels like enough. I never feel… loved. Not really.”Robin’s chest tightened.

“No matter how many guys I’m with,” you continued, barely audible now, “I still feel alone.”

When you came out of the stall, eyes red, Robin didn’t ask questions. She just handed you a paper towel and stood there with you.

“You’re not broken,” she said softly.

You smiled, sad and tired. “Feels like it.”

That night, Robin went home and cried to Steve.

“She doesn’t feel loved,” she said, voiceshaking. “And she deserves so much more than what she’s getting.”

Steve frowned. “You like her.”

Robin laughed wetly. “I love her.”

The next day at school was heavy with unsaid things.

After classes ended, you both ended up on the bleachers, waiting for the coaches to show up. Robin hesitated before sitting next to you, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed anymore.“So,” she said finally, fiddling with her sleeves, “uh… yesterday was rough, huh?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “Thanks for staying.”

Robin swallowed. “Always.”

She wanted to tell you everything. Wanted to say your loneliness wasn’t invisible, that someone saw you completely — that she did.

Instead, she just sat there beside you, heart aching, hoping one day you’d realize you were never asking for too much.

"So uh.. you excited for the show next week?"