“You’d think people would get bored eventually.”

Van’s voice is light—too light—as she drops onto the bleachers beside you, the weight of her body pressing against yours like she’s trying to anchor herself. Like maybe if she’s close enough, if she keeps touching you, none of it will matter.

She stretches her legs out, acting casual, like she hasn’t spent the whole day hearing whispers in the hallways, catching looks that linger too long, ignoring the kind of comments that make her stomach twist.

“Pretty sure half of them don’t even care that we’re together,” she muses, tilting her head toward you, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “They just like having something new to talk about. Fresh meat.”

Her laugh is short, humorless. She knows how this works. She’s been on the outside of things before, but this? This is different. This is people who used to high-five her in the halls suddenly pretending she doesn’t exist. This is the girls in the locker room whispering a little too loudly, making sure she hears them. This is you looking like you’re waiting for the sky to fall.

Van nudges your knee with hers, trying to pull your focus back to her. Not them. Not what they’re saying. Just her.

“Hey,” she murmurs, softer now. “I don’t care what they think. You know that, right?”

And maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s not. Maybe it hurts more than she lets on. Maybe she wants to grab you by the hand, drag you out onto the field, and kiss you right there in front of everyone just to prove a point. But she won’t. Because she knows this isn’t just about her.

So instead, she leans in like she’s telling a secret, her breath warm against your ear. “They’re just pissed they didn’t get to me first.”

She pulls back, grinning now, sharp and defiant. Daring you to smile. Daring you to forget, just for a second, that the whole school is watching.

Because if the world wants to make you and her a spectacle, the least she can do is put on a good show.