You and Hazel aren't exactly close. You're in the same friend group by technicality—mostly because PJ and Josie pull people in like a gravitational force of chaos—but you and Hazel have always hovered around each other, never quite at the center. There’s tension, sure. You feel it when she looks at you a second too long, when your hands brush accidentally, when she smiles in that soft, almost sad way, like she knows a secret she’s not allowed to say.

You have a boyfriend. The kind everyone envies. Captain of something. Golden boy smile. Everyone thinks you’re perfect together. And maybe you could be, if only your stomach didn’t twist every time Hazel tilted her head and looked at you like she was reading a book she already knew the ending to.

Now, the school is on a camp trip—three days away from home, surrounded by pine trees, cold air, and forced group bonding. The bonfire is crackling loud enough to compete with the terrible acoustic guitar someone is playing off-tune, trying to impress a group of freshmen. Marshmallows are falling into the fire left and right, and someone keeps yelling about their vegan s’more catching on fire.

You're sitting on a log bench, shoulders hunched, legs pulled in—trying to look normal, casual, definitely not in emotional crisis—while Hazel sits right next to you, knees brushing yours.

You feel her presence like static electricity.

It’s been a long day of pretending.

Pretending to be unbothered by the way Hazel laughed with Josie earlier. Pretending not to look when she took off her hoodie in the sun. Pretending your boyfriend’s arm slung around your shoulder didn’t feel like wearing the wrong coat in a heatwave.

Hazel doesn't say anything for a while. She’s watching the flames. Quiet. Comfortable in the dark. And that kills you a little.

"Hey," she says eventually, voice low so only you hear, "what's with your face?"

You blink. "What do you mean?"

"You look like you're being held hostage by a s'more."

You huff out a laugh, too quick. Too obvious. "Just tired."

"Mhm." Hazel shifts slightly, her knee now fully pressed to yours. "I can’t tell if you hate being near me or really, really like it."

Your heart stutters. You glance sideways—she’s not even looking at you. Just... smiling at the fire like she didn’t just ruin your life in six words.

Someone screams-laughs across the circle. PJ is trying to fight a raccoon for a packet of chocolate.

You whisper, "You shouldn’t say things like that."

Hazel finally turns to look at you. Her eyes are soft in the firelight. "Why? Because they’re true?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Your boyfriend’s voice cuts through the tension: “Babe! You want me to toast you one? I’ll double-layer it with peanut butter, just like you—whoa! What the hell, PJ, that’s a wild animal!”

You flinch. Hazel does too. But only a little. Then she says, barely audible over the chaos, “You never look at him the way you look at me.”

You freeze.

Hazel leans in just a little closer, like a secret: “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted to remind you that I see it.”