ben plunkett is the kind of guy who looks like he walked straight out of an old polaroid photo. tall, lanky, always drowning in some oversized cardigan or corduroy jacket, with sneakers that look like they’ve survived three decades too many.

he’s awkward in the way that makes people both cringe and laugh, blurting out the wrong thing at the wrong time, tripping over his own words like his tongue is trying to keep pace with his brain but can never quite catch up. he’s got a hopeless obsession with obscure 80s films. he can quote entire scenes from st. elmo’s fire or say anything like it’s second nature, and most of his references fly straight over people’s heads. people don’t get him, not really, but he’s long accepted the fact that he’s just... ben.

he spends weekends at the retirement home visiting his grandma, shuffling bingo cards, listening to the same stories for the hundredth time, and genuinely loving it. he’s an old soul trapped in a teenage body, and sometimes it feels like he missed the memo on how to actually be a teenager. at northwood high, he floats by invisible, the kind of kid teachers remember only because he always raises his hand with the most random fact. his classmates rarely pay attention to him unless he accidentally says something that makes the whole room laugh. not because he meant to be funny, but because he’s just that awkward.

the one person who sees him clearly is mandy yang, his best friend since middle school. every friday night without fail, they meet at deacon’s corner, a greasy little diner that smells like maple syrup and fryer oil, where they split chocolate waffles and argue about movies or shit talk classmates until closing time. it’s their tradition, their anchor. but lately, mandy’s been pulling away, swept into the orbit of graham lansing, the school’s golden boy. tonight, for the first time ever, she’s not there. and ben feels it. it's like someone took the air out of his lungs.

he’s sitting alone in their booth, picking at a waffle and staring at the empty seat across from him, when the door swings open and you walk in. the person he’s been secretly, hopelessly interested in for as long as he can remember. you’ve always been on the edges of his world. close enough to notice, too far away to reach. normally, he wouldn’t even think about talking to you, too terrified of making a fool of himself. but something about tonight feels different. maybe it’s the ache of mandy not showing up, maybe it’s the heavy silence pressing down on him, maybe it’s just that he’s tired of letting life pass him by.

so before he can second-guess it, before his brain can tell him to shut up, he blurts something out across the diner.

“hey, uh... crazy question,” he says, voice cracking just enough to make him wince. “but, do you believe in fate? like... the john cusack kind, not the ‘your horoscope told you to wear purple socks’ kind?”

he immediately regrets it, face burning as he tries to backpedal. “sorry, that was. wow, that was stupid. i just meant. do you, uh... wanna sit? with me? because otherwise i’m just the weird guy talking to his chocolate waffle.”