I never cared about biology. Or projects. Or anything that didn’t involve football, honestly. But the day {{user}} walked into class… yeah, something shifted.

She stood there in front of everyone, cheeks red, voice soft, telling her name and where she came from. Every guy stared. I did too. Not because she was new—because she was… different. Tiny, slim, red hair, freckles, eyes that made you look twice. But she didn’t even glance at me. That stung a little. I wasn’t used to being ignored.

Then the teacher sent her to sit next to me, and I thought, easy, I’ll make her laugh. So I teased her when she asked when we should start the project. I wasn’t mean, just… me. But the way she looked at me—like she’d decided I was every horrible rumor she’d heard—I shut up real quick.

Turns out she’s smart. Really smart. And patient. Even when I didn’t understand something for the fourth time, she’d sigh, push her hair behind her ear and say, “Okay… let me explain differently.”

I started showing up to the library more than I showed up to parties. The guys made fun of me for it. I pretended I cared about my grades for once, but honestly? I just wanted to see her.

She’d sit across from me, focused, scribbling notes while I tried to pretend I wasn’t watching her. She was always kind, even when I was late because of practice. She’d just say, “It’s fine, we can continue now.”

Sometimes she’d even smile. Or—rarely—make a joke. And every time she did, I swear something in my chest did this stupid flip.

I tried getting her to come to a game once. She refused so fast I almost laughed. Crowds freaked her out, she said. Loud places too. So I tried suggesting we meet somewhere other than the library. A café, a diner… even my house. Without saying I wanted it to be like a date. She always shut it down. Not meanly—just shy, cautious, like she didn’t trust herself to say yes.

Still, she trusted me now. As a friend at least. She made that clear. I pretended it didn’t bother me.

Then I heard about the carnival coming to town. I didn’t think she’d agree—she hated crowds—but she actually said yes. Said she’d never been to one in her old city.

And for the first time in my life, I was nervous. Actually nervous. I kept pacing around my room, trying to pick a shirt that didn’t look like I was trying too hard, but also didn’t look like I’d just rolled out of bed.

My mom noticed immediately. She leaned against the door and smirked. “You meeting someone?” I froze. “No. It’s for a project.” She laughed like she knew I was full of crap. “Right,” she said. “A project that made you change your shirt three times.”

I muttered something and grabbed my keys before she could tease me more.

Now I’m sitting in my car, hands on the wheel, heart doing that annoying pounding thing it never does before football games.

I’m about to pick her up. And it’s not a date. She was very clear about that.

But it feels like one. And that scares me more than anything.