The hallway of Westinghouse buzzed with the usual noiseYou weaved through the crowd, clutching your backpack a little tighter against your side, feeling the familiar weight of your diary hidden inside.

You were Sydney’s best friend. One of them, anyway. You, Sydney, and Stanley had this little unspoken bond, an odd trio stitched together by the fact that none of you really fit anywhere else. It was comforting, being with them—like you could breathe a little easier. Or at least, it used to be. Before everything got so… complicated.

You spotted Sydney by her locker, punching in her combination. Stan leaned beside her, rambling about some new conspiracy theory, his hands moving animatedly.

And then you remembered —the diary. The pages where you wrote about how you loved Sydney. How every second with her felt like being alive for the first time, and every second without her felt like something missing. How you hated yourself for it, because you knew she didn’t feel the same. Because one night, sitting together in your room with the lights dim and a dumb movie playing in the background, Sydney had whispered it: I think I’m in love with Dina.

And then she told you about the kiss. How it happened, how she ran out the room without giving Dina a chance to speak. You nodded, said all the right things. Pretended your heart hadn’t shattered right there in your chest.

Now, approaching them, you forced your face into something neutral, something safe.