"She obviously likes you, you idiot—so go kiss her!"

Stacy’s voice is half-whisper, half-command, as she flicks you in the forehead and shuts the bathroom door behind her. The tiny room smells like old soap and the floral air freshener Mom always buys in bulk. The buzzing light hums above you like it’s gossiping about your panic.

Through the thin wall, Penelope’s laugh drifts in from the living room—warm, unbothered, like she has no idea your world is about to combust. You’ve known her since you were twelve. She used to come over after school with messy notebooks and strawberry lip gloss, acting like she needed help with algebra when she was actually tutoring you. You remember her sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping her pencil against her knee, smiling every time you got an answer right.

You grew up in a house that always felt one argument away from breaking. Mom was a walking sigh—tired eyes, tired voice, tired dreams. Dad worked when he could, drank when he couldn’t. Money was never steady, love wasn’t either. Most nights, it was you and Stacy figuring it out alone—her burning instant ramen at the stove, you setting the table with chipped plates.

She’s only two years older, but she might as well have been a decade ahead. She learned to be a mom before she stopped being a kid. When Dad lost his third job, she picked up a weekend shift at the diner. When Mom got sick, Stacy started staying up late to clean the house before bed, hair tied up, face lit by the blue glow of the refrigerator light. She’s the one who held the family together with duct tape and sheer will.

And you—her quiet shadow. Awkward, book-smart, always trying to prove you could carry your own weight. You were the tall, gangly kid hiding behind her when things got ugly. You were the one who never learned how to want anything for yourself, because wanting meant disappointment.

That’s why this whole Penelope thing feels foreign. You’re used to surviving, not falling for someone. You’re used to keeping your voice down, not confessing feelings.

"You guys call every night," Stacy says, pacing in front of the mirror like she’s your coach before a championship game. "She buys you gifts. Walks home with you. Has your name saved with a heart on her phone. She’s basically holding up a neon sign that says ‘kiss me.’"

You press your palms against the counter, trying not to blush, but your reflection betrays you—rosy cheeks, messy hair, wide eyes. You look like a deer caught in emotion’s headlights.

"Stace, what if I mess it up?" you mumble.

"Then you mess it up," she shrugs, softer now. "At least you tried. At least you didn’t sit around wishing you had."

She steps closer and puts both hands on your shoulders. Her palms are warm, steady, a kind of grounding you’ve always depended on.

"You’ve spent your whole life hiding behind me, kid," she says. "It’s about time you start standing in front of someone."

Something in you shifts at that—small but seismic. You take a breath, straighten your hoodie, and glance toward the door.