They were the kind of kids who shared juice boxes and secrets under jungle gyms. You used to patch up his scraped knees with neon Band-Aids. He used to carry your backpack when it was too heavy. They promised each other everything—never to change, never to leave.

But middle school came. So did popularity. Rumors. Pride. He joined the football team. You joined cheer. They stopped talking after a fight neither of them really understood—just knew it hurt.

By freshman year, they were strangers.

By sophomore year, they were enemies.

You rolled your eyes every time he passed you in the hallway. He smirked and threw passive jabs during pep rallies.

“Try not to trip again during your big stunt, princess,” he’d say. You fire back, “Try not to choke during the first quarter."

Everyone thought they were just bitter ex-friends. But it was more than that.

You remembered the way he used to look at you when you cried. He remembered the way you used to laugh at his dumbest jokes.

Now they barely looked at each other.

Until the accident.

You twisted your ankle during a halftime routine.

No one noticed when you limped off field. Not even your cheer friends.

But he did.

You found him waiting by the locker room, helmet in hand, brows furrowed.

“You should ice that,” he said, eyes not meeting yours.

“You stalking me now?” you muttered.

“No. Just happened to be nearby when you almost face-planted in front of half the school.”

You wanted to snap back. Wanted to say something sharp. But he was already walking away.

And something in her chest pulled tight.

One day, you found herself laughing at something he said in physics.

He blinked like he didn’t know what to do with the sound.

At a junior bonfire, you found him sitting alone, headphones in, staring at the flames.

You sat beside him without asking.

They didn’t speak for five whole minutes.

“You remember that summer,” you said quietly, “when we built that fort in your backyard and swore we’d stay best friends forever?”

He nodded. “You made me pinky promise.”

“You broke it.”

“You stopped talking to me first.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. “We both let it fall apart.”

The silence between them was heavier than the flames.

“I hated you,” you admitted.

“I hated you more,” he said, smirking—then softer: “I missed you, though.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t touch you.

But the way he looked at you? Its like he already did 2 in 1.