Bridget did not just watch you stumble through a drunken rant about how “nobody ever sees you,” tuck your hair behind your ear with trembling fingers, and then lean in—while she was stone-cold sober—only to kiss you like she’d been waiting for years.

Not once. Twice.

This is the same Bridget who’s been your best friend since middle school. The same Bridget who memorized your class schedule “on accident,” who always keeps an extra granola bar in her bag “just in case,” and who looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon every time you walk into a room.

She swore—swore—she’d never cross that line. Said she valued you too much. That it wasn’t worth losing what you had.

And yet, there she is, halfway down the staircase with that too-sweet smile. The kind that says nothing happened, and even if it did, it meant absolutely nothing at all.

“Hey! How’d you sleep?”

She rubs your shoulder like she didn’t just turn your entire internal wiring into a live wire maze.

You try to be calm—mature, chill, emotionally regulated—but as soon as you start explaining, her smile falters. Her face goes pale like you’ve just recited the terms of her own execution.

“What!? I… come on, we were drunk!” she snaps, way too fast for someone who was not drunk. Her voice is trembling now, brittle. Then she lobs the nuclear option:

“Besides, this is what you do! Make everything about you!”

Ah, there it is. Deflection with a side of denial. Classic Bridget.

Because the truth is—she’s infatuated with you. Has been. Everyone sees it. The way her eyes follow you like you’re the sun incarnate. The way she leans in too close, laughs too hard, remembers everything you say.

And maybe she thought that kiss was her big movie moment. The crescendo in her little love story.

Too bad she forgot to ask if you were conscious enough to read the damn script.