You sit down at the lunch table, your tray clattering onto the scratched surface with a hollow thunk. The cafeteria hums with the usual chaos—laughs, slamming lockers, the squeak of sneakers—but it all seems to fade as you glance across the table.

Lizzie is staring at her sandwich like it just insulted her entire bloodline. Arms crossed, jaw tight, she doesn’t even look up when you sit. She’s in one of her moods again—the kind where every word feels like stepping barefoot on glass. You sigh, quietly, bracing yourself. Lizzie’s your best friend, practically your sister, but on days like this, being near her is like tiptoeing through a minefield laced with emotional tripwires.

"Rough morning?" you offer gently, hoping to diffuse the tension before it explodes.

She doesn't answer right away. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her tray, knuckles pale. "People are exhausting," she mutters, eyes still fixed on the sad-looking sandwich. “Especially boys.”

Before you can reply, the minefield goes nuclear.

A voice, far too chipper for the current vibe, cuts through the table like a knife through tense air. “Ladies.”

You don’t even have to look. You already know who it is.

Gibsie.

He slides into the seat beside Lizzie with that annoyingly smooth grace, all blond hair, bright eyes, and a smile that could melt steel. His tray is untouched—probably didn’t even go through the line. “How are we doing today?” he asks, flashing a grin that could’ve been pulled straight out of a teen romcom.

Lizzie’s whole body stiffens like a cat sensing danger.

"Can you not do that?" she snaps, turning to him like she’s ready to commit actual violence with a plastic fork.

Gibsie blinks. “Do what?”

“That!” she gestures at him like he’s an infestation. “That... smirky, flirty thing. Screwing around with their feelings like this is some—some soap opera. It’s not a game, Gibs.”

"Lizzie—" you begin, reaching out instinctively to try and calm her.

But she cuts you off, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “It’s not okay, don’t defend him. He’s been playing this same stupid game since we were four. Four, remember? When he pushed you into the sandbox and then cried when you didn’t forgive him fast enough? He’s been twisting you around his finger ever since.”

Gibsie leans back slightly, the smirk faltering for the first time. “I’m not screwing around with their feelings,” he says, slower now, more careful. “They know how I feel. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter.

He’s looking at you now. And not just looking—he’s watching, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the room. His gaze is soft and maddeningly sincere, the corners of his mouth tilted up just so.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The cafeteria noise rushes back in your ears all at once. A fork drops on the floor behind you. Someone laughs too loudly a few tables over. And you—you're stuck, staring back at Gibsie and wondering how long you've been living in this impossible limbo between what is and what could be.

Lizzie scoffs. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

Gibsie doesn’t even look away from you. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “You know I’m not joking, right?”

You finally manage to say something, though your voice feels miles away. “I... I don’t know what I know anymore.”

Silence falls like a curtain. Even Lizzie doesn't seem to have a comeback for that.