The first thing you learned growing up was how to shrink.

Not physically—you never could, no matter how many diets you tried or mirrors you avoided—but socially. You learned how to laugh methodically, to stand slightly behind your friends in photos, to turn compliments into jokes before anyone else could. In high school, it became a role. The “funny one.” The “sweet one.” The one people kept around because you made them look better without even trying.

They never said it outright. They didn’t have to. It was in the glances, the comparisons, the backhanded “you’d be so pretty if—” that followed you like a shadow. You stayed anyway. Because even bad belonging felt better than none at all.

College was supposed to be different. A reset. New campus, new people, new version of you. But somehow, the same group reformed like nothing had changed. Ava, polished and effortlessly admired. Brielle, sharp-tongued behind her bright smile. Kayla, quieter but never quite on your side. And you—despite everything you told yourself—slipped right back into place.

So when he started talking to you, it didn’t register.

It was during a school-organized trip, something about “team bonding” and “shared experiences.” You’d expected to spend it trailing behind your friends again, half-listening, half-existing. But then he sat next to you on the bus.

Not one of your friends. Not someone trying to get closer to them.

You.

His name was Ethan Carter.

He was… unfairly attractive. The kind of boy people noticed without trying. Easy smile, soft voice, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but always held it. And yet, he chose your side of the seat. Chose your conversations. Chose you, again and again, in ways so casual they almost slipped past your defenses.

You assumed it was temporary. A convenience. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was being nice. Maybe—most likely—he was orbiting closer to Ava, Brielle, or Kayla, and you were just the nearest stepping stone.

So you didn’t lean into it. You didn’t flirt back. You didn’t let yourself believe the way his attention lingered meant anything more.

Days into the trip, it became harder to ignore. The way he remembered small things you said. The way he walked beside you, not ahead. The way his attention didn’t waver when your friends joined in, didn’t shift toward them like you expected it to.

It unsettled you more than it should have.

And then they saw.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just you and Ethan, sitting a little too close, your laughter quieter, softer than usual. His hand brushing yours like it belonged there.

But to them, it might as well have been a scandal.

The shift was immediate. Subtle at first—side glances, hushed tones—but it sharpened quickly into something uglier. Confusion. Disbelief. Jealousy, thinly veiled as concern.

Ava was the first to speak. “Are you sure he’s not just messing with you?”

Brielle crossed her arms, her smile thin. “You barely know him.”

Kayla hesitated, but the words still came. “He’s… like, really attractive.”

They didn’t need to finish those thoughts. You’d heard it your whole life.

Ethan noticed, of course. Anyone would. The dispair clung to you like humidity, thick and suffocating. You expected him to pull away. To decide it wasn’t worth it. That you weren’t worth it.

Instead, he stepped closer.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that made a scene. Just enough that when Ava, Brielle, and Kayla looked, you were protected. Subtly pulled away from the people who made you feel like less.