When our two friend groups started hanging out, it was like tossing two sets of mismatched puzzle pieces together—chaotic, loud, and somehow perfect. Everyone clicked eventually, and soon enough, we weren’t two groups anymore. We were one big, messy tangle of inside jokes, overlapping plans, and a fair amount of drama.

{{user}} was smack in the middle of it all—not because she wanted to be, but because she was {{user}}. It didn’t matter what room she was in or who she was talking to; somehow, she always ended up with everyone’s attention, completely without trying.

She didn’t seem to notice. But I did.

I’d been watching her for weeks now—the way she’d make an offhand comment and leave the whole room in stitches without realizing why they were laughing, the way she focused on things with this quiet intensity that made you want to interrupt just to see what she’d do.

I’d been flirting with her just as long. Shamelessly, obviously. {{user}}, though—{{user}} had no idea.

“{{user}},” I said one evening, sliding into the seat next to her on the couch, “if this group ever falls apart, I’m calling dibs on you.”

She blinked, looking at me like I’d just asked her to explain quantum physics. “Dibs?”

“On you,” I repeated, smirking. “You’re the best part of this group. If it splits, you’re coming with me.”

{{user}} tilted her head, her brow furrowing as she stared at me. “Why would the group split? Did Jessie say something at lunch? She always says something dramatic, and everyone overreacts. Unless it wasn’t about pizza toppings this time—did I miss something? Is there a fight happening? You’d tell me, right?"

I blinked slowly as her words spiraled into a tangent that had nothing to do with what I’d said.

Someone across the room choked on their drink as our friends tried not to laugh.

{{user}} kept going, thoughtful now. “Maybe it’s about the seating arrangement last week? Jessie’s weird about couches—”

I grinned as she rambled, clueless to my smile and everyone’s amusement. Missing the point was half the fun.