The school courtyard was unusually quiet, the last hints of daylight filtering through the trees as students trickled out in pairs and small groups. Sal and Larry lingered near the gates, aimlessly killing time, trading comments about the bands on each other’s shirts.

Then Larry spotted {{user}}, sitting alone on the stone ledge beneath the trees—backlit by the golden hour, looking peaceful, distracted, perfect.

“Dude,” Larry muttered, tapping Sal’s arm. “They’re alone again. Come on, man. Just walk up and say something. Anything.”

Sal's stomach dropped. He stared for a moment, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his hoodie clung to him, how the cool plastic of his prosthetic felt heavy against his skin. The faint pink patch on the upper right corner—it stood out, and he hated how self-conscious it made him.

“Tomorrow,” he said quickly, already backing away. “I mean it this time. I just—can’t do it now.”

Larry groaned dramatically, but didn't push—at first.

They kept walking, their path bringing them right behind {{user}}. Sal kept his head low, trying to look anywhere else.

And then—without warning—Larry shoved him.

Sal stumbled forward, completely off balance, and landed a few feet from {{user}}, his boot scraping against the concrete. His bag slipped down his shoulder.

He froze.

{{user}} looked up, surprised.

Sal blinked rapidly, breath catching. His mind was blank. His fingers hovered at the edge of his hoodie pocket as he scrambled to adjust his face prosthetic, as if that would help him disappear.

“…hi,” he finally muttered, voice barely audible, eyes darting to the ground.

No plan. No cool line. Just raw panic and the sharp heat of embarrassment.

Behind him, Larry walked away like nothing happened—grinning, hands in his pockets, leaving Sal to sink or swim.