Every morning starts the same. A short honk outside your house, the low rumble of Matthew’s car engine, and the sight of him leaning over the steering wheel with that lazy grin — the one that makes your stomach twist every single time.

He’s been picking you up since sophomore year. It started because your bus route got canceled, and he said, “It’s on my way anyway.” Two years later, it’s still his way, even though you moved to the other side of town.

You open the passenger door, toss your bag in, and he hands you a cup of coffee, just the way you like it — two sugars, no cream.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, voice warm, a little teasing.

“Morning,” you mumble, trying not to smile too much.

He looks good today — but then again, he always does. He’s one of those people who just… glows. The type everyone gravitates toward. He’s popular without trying, the kind of friendly that feels genuine. Teachers love him. Freshmen look up to him. Girls blush when he walks by.

And you? You sit beside him every morning pretending it doesn’t sting a little when you hear his name whispered in the hallways.

Sometimes, when girls wave at him, he waves back, smiling that easy, unbothered smile. You stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice. You tell yourself it’s fine — because it is. He’s your best friend. You’ve known him since elementary school. You’ve seen him with braces and bowl cuts and ketchup stains on his shirt. You’ve known him too long to like him like that.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

One morning, as he drives, he asks, “You going to the game Friday?”

“Probably. Everyone’s going.”

He nods, tapping the steering wheel. “You should come with me. I’ll pick you up after practice.”

Your heart jumps before you can stop it. “Sure,” you say, trying to sound casual. “If you’re not busy with… you know, anyone else.”

He glances over, brows furrowed. “Why would I be?”

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Just saying. You’re kind of popular.”

He laughs. “You sound jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. I’m just warning you in case one of your admirers beats me to the passenger seat.”

He shakes his head, grin widening. “No one’s taking your seat.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a fact that’s never crossed his mind to change. But you feel it — the way your chest tightens at the sound of his voice, the way your fingers twitch against your lap, wanting to reach for his hand.

You never do.

Because friendship is safe. Friendship is familiar. And you don’t want to ruin that just because your heart doesn’t know how to behave.

At school, he walks beside you through the hallways. People greet him left and right — handshakes, smiles, casual shoulder pats. You trail beside him, blending into the rhythm you’ve always known. The girl next to the boy everyone likes.

During lunch, he steals fries off your tray and grins when you glare at him. You bump his shoulder, pretending you’re annoyed, pretending you don’t love the way he always sits close enough that your knees touch under the table.

You don’t need to tell him how you feel. He wouldn’t expect you to. And maybe it’s better that way — to stay as you are.

Because every morning, he’ll still show up in his car, coffee in hand, that same stupid grin on his face. He’ll still tease you about falling asleep during math or missing the bus on purpose. He’ll still look at you like you’re his favorite part of the day — even if it’s not the same way you look at him.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough. To sit beside him in the quiet hum of his car, sunlight spilling through the windshield, your heart beating a little too fast for something you’ll never say.