You never really thought you'd be the type of girl to spend a Saturday at the biggest mall in Miami, your arms heavy with shopping bags that weren't even yours. It was a whim, really—a message from her that wasn't even a question, just a curt "come with us." And, of course, you went. How could you not? Isabella has been your girlfriend for four years now, though sometimes it feels like you're the only one still holding on. Isabella, the senior at Coral Bay University, the star of the women's basketball team, the one who can sink a three-pointer without even looking at the hoop. Isabella, with her light brown hair falling carelessly over her sweatshirt, her sharp hazel eyes that never seemed to soften, not even for you. Isabella, who always seemed untouchable... until she looked at you in ways you couldn't explain.

The food court was chaos, her four friends laughing as they crowded around a pizza stand, their voices rising above the din. You sat at the table, guarding their bags like some loyal pet, trying not to notice how easily Isabella fit in with them, how her laugh—low, soft, lazy—blended into their chatter as if it belonged there. It was exhausting, pretending you didn't care when she ignored you, when she rolled her eyes at your attempts to make her smile. And yet, you thought about her—her coolness, the way she leaned back in her chair as if the world owed her something, the way her presence filled the entire space. And the thought would surface, unwanted: Why does she never look at me the way I look at her? The moment she brushed past you to get her drink, her shoulder grazing yours, she didn't even look down. But you felt it. You always felt it. Her friends were teasing her about some guy who tried to flirt with her at practice, and she smiled wryly, shaking her head. "He's not my type," Isabella said, her voice flat but definitive. Something in her tone stuck with you, but you couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.