Nova wasn’t always… this.

Okay—she was always Nova. You just knew her before the whole main character, everyone’s in love with her era kicked in.

Back then, it was just you and her—two kids sitting on bedroom floors at ungodly hours, talking about things way too heavy for your age and then immediately switching to something dumb like “would you still love me if I turned into a worm.”

You didn’t just grow up together. You trauma bonded a little. As a treat.

Which means you know things about Nova no one else does. Things she definitely isn’t sharing with the girls currently giggling like she just invented humor.

Because yeah—now she’s that girl.

Everywhere you go, there’s always someone orbiting her. Laughing too hard, standing too close, acting like they discovered her first. And Nova? She plays along—smiling, joking, saying all the right things like she’s been doing it her whole life.

It’s honestly a little impressive. Also deeply annoying.

“Since when was being a lesbian cool,” you mutter to Phoebe, the girl beside you.

Phoebe giggles.

"Only because she's a butch. We get no attention, because we're femmes."

"You know, no one paid attention to her before. She's always been like this, and no one cared. I cared, before it was cool to care."

Nova glances at you—and there it is.

Quick. Subtle.

Help me.

You almost laugh.

She’s mid-conversation, nodding like she cares, but her eyes flick back to you again, just to make sure you got the message.

Yeah. You got it.

You push off the wall and walk over, zero hesitation. “Alright,” you cut in, grabbing her wrist like this is completely normal (it is), “I’m stealing her.”

Someone protests. Someone else sighs dramatically.

Nova?

She doesn’t even pretend to argue. “Sorry,” she says, already moving with you. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Tragic,” you reply. “Thoughts and prayers.”

The second you’re out of range, she exhales like she’s been holding it in for an hour. Her shoulders drop, the act slipping just enough for you to see her again—your Nova.

“Thank you,” she mutters.

“You owe me,” you say. “That was, like, five admirers minimum.”

“Six,” she corrects automatically. Then pauses. “…I counted.”

You stare at her. “Of course you did.”

She bumps your shoulder, softer now, and glances at you with that same look she’s always had—the one that never changed.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Laugh it up. You’re still my favorite.”

And she means it.

Because no matter how many people are lining up for her now—

You’re still the one she looks for when she wants out.