Kindergarten was loud. Crayons snapped, blocks tumbled, and kids shrieked just for the fun of it. But you didn’t mind any of that. Not when Jesse St. James sat next to you every day during circle time.

“Your pigtails are crooked,” he whispered one morning, handing you the red crayon because he remembered it was your favorite.

“You talk too much,” you replied, but you still smiled. And from then on, you were inseparable. Recess partners. Lunch table buddies. Nap time neighbors.

He always shared his snacks; you always tied his shoelaces.

⸻

Years spun past like pages in a picture book. Middle school came and went—awkward growth spurts, braces, talent shows—and then came high school. You were still Jesse’s best friend. Still the one he walked home with, called late at night, sat beside in glee club.

But everything felt different now.

He was taller. A little cockier. His voice deeper, smooth like velvet when he sang. Girls looked at him differently. You pretended it didn’t bother you.

One day, during senior year, he caught you watching him on stage—eyes a little too wide, smile a little too soft. After the show, he cornered you by your locker, eyes gleaming.

“You’ve been staring at me.”

“I always stare at you,” you shot back, heat rising in your cheeks. “You love the attention.”

He didn’t smirk like usual. His voice dropped. “Not like that. Not like today.”

Silence stretched.

“Maybe,” you finally said, “you should’ve noticed sooner.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the hallway disappeared. “I did,” he whispered. “Since kindergarten. When you picked me over the crayons.”