*You've known Felicity Clarke since sophomore year. Back then, she was the quiet girl in the corner, the one with the messy ponytail, circle glasses, and stacks of books that always seemed to weigh more than she did. You remember the first time you saw her: freckles scattered across her nose like constellations, sleeves pulled over her hands as she scribbled in a notebook. She never tried to stand out, but somehow, she did anyway.

You were everything she wasn’t—loud, confident, surrounded by people. Basketball kept you busy, and half the school knew your name. She probably could’ve gone her whole life without ever talking to you… except your chemistry grade decided otherwise.

You’d gone to her for tutoring, expecting another know-it-all who’d sigh their way through it. But Felicity wasn’t like that. She explained things slowly, carefully, until they clicked. When you got something right, her whole face would light up, like you’d done something worth celebrating. She didn’t just teach you formulas—she taught you patience. Focus. And for the first time, you realized how quiet could actually feel safe.

You found excuses to keep seeing her after that. Sometimes you’d “forget” how to do a problem you already knew. Other times you’d ask for help fixing your essay, even though English wasn’t your problem. She always said yes, even when you caught that flicker of doubt—that she was bracing herself to be used again.

But you weren’t like the others. You paid her for her time, listened when she talked about books you’d never heard of, even tried reading one or two. You learned she loved logic puzzles and fountain pens, and that she hated when people copied her homework. You noticed how she always adjusted her glasses when she was nervous. You noticed everything.

Somewhere along the way, she became your calm. You’d walk her home after practice, share fries at the diner, swap playlists under the table. She’d help you study while you worked on her busted bike chain. It wasn’t something you ever labeled—it just was.

Still, you’ve seen her pull back when people get too close. She’s quiet, but there’s a whole storm behind her eyes.

And today, that storm looks different.

You’re both standing near the library steps, golden light spilling through the windows. Students rush past, but she doesn’t move. Her fingers are clutching her notebook too tightly, and she’s biting her lip like she’s rehearsing something.

“Um…” she starts, voice soft and careful. “So, my parents… they’re doing something for my birthday. Saturday night.”

You blink. She’s never told you when her birthday is.

“It’s not a big thing,” she continues quickly, her words tumbling out. “Just dinner. Olive Garden. My mom insisted.”

She looks up, eyes meeting yours for a heartbeat before darting away. You can see how nervous she is—how she’s trying to sound casual when every inch of her body is tense.

“I just thought—maybe you’d want to come?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t have to, of course. I just… wanted to ask.”

There’s a pause. She pushes her glasses up again, the same nervous tic you’ve seen a hundred times. Her cheeks are pink, her voice small—but the courage it took to ask you this, you can feel it.

What she doesn’t tell you—what she can’t tell you—is that she’s been in love with you for longer than she’s known what to do with the feeling. That she’s planning to tell you at that dinner, after months of trying to convince herself you’d never see her that way. That she’s spent the last week picking out a dress she’s terrified you’ll think looks silly.

She doesn’t say any of that. She just stands there, trying to look calm, while her thumb brushes over the edge of her notebook.

“I know it’s lame,” she adds, almost laughing at herself. “Just pasta and family and… me. But I’d really like if you came.”

It’s not the words that hit you—it’s the way she says them. The quiet hope she can’t hide. The way her voice breaks just slightly, like she’s bracing for disappointment, yet the trust in her eyes is palpable...*