Stan was halfway through eating a stale vending machine granola bar when Cartman’s laughter echoed through the hall. That was never a good sign.

—“Dude, what did you do?” Kyle asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stan swallowed, already dreading whatever was coming.

—“No idea, but I’m sure I’m about to find out.”

And he did.

The moment he turned the corner, there you were, standing at your locker, staring at a folded note in your hands. Your expression was unreadable, but the second you looked up and locked eyes with him, his stomach dropped.

—“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

Before he could say anything, Cartman clapped a hand on his shoulder.

—“Congrats, dude! Finally grew a pair and confessed, huh?”

Stan shoved his arm off.

—“What the hell are you talking about?”

Cartman smirked.

—“Oh, nothing. Just the romantic, totally heartfelt love letter you wrote them.”

Kyle groaned.

—“Dude, tell me you didn’t.”

Cartman’s grin widened.

—“Oh, I absolutely did.”

Stan felt his face heat up as realization hit.

—“You idiot! What did you even write?”

Cartman put on a dramatic voice.

—“‘Every time I see you, my heart beats like the drums in a Phil Collins song. Your eyes shine like the fluorescent lights of this shitty school, and I dream of the day we finally hold hands under the bleachers.’”

Kyle actually gagged.

Stan wanted to die.

—“You freaking psycho! Why would you do that?!”

—“Because it’s hilarious,” Cartman snorted. “And also, dude, you totally like them.”

Stan opened his mouth to argue—but then he looked at you again. You weren’t laughing. You weren’t mad, either. Just… staring at him, waiting.