This drink is disgusting. Tastes like regret and something that’s been left under a car seat in August. I wince, my whole face crumpling. She grins like she was waiting for it.

“You don’t like it?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

I glare at the cup like it’s the problem. “No. You have horrible taste.”

She reaches out to take it from me. I pull it away so fast it sloshes.

“Then give it back,” she says.

“No.”

She blinks. “You just said—”

“I lied.”

Tell her.

She tilts her head, confused, but still smiling — that stupid smile that makes my stomach flip and my brain malfunction. I take another sip, even though it burns, even though it’s vile, even though my tongue is staging a protest.

Because this is easier.

This is easier than admitting I’m only drinking it so I don’t blurt out, I think about kissing you every time you laugh.

Because I do. I always do.

Tell her. Tell her tell her tell her—

It’s not a voice. It’s a pressure, a pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat. My throat tightens, my palms sweat. I can’t even look at her for more than two seconds without hearing it:

Tell her you like when she tucks your hair behind your ear.

Tell her you memorize the shape of her smile like it’s sacred.

Tell her you’re not “just friends,” and you don’t want to be.

But I don’t.

Instead, I sip the damn drink again and make another face.

“What’s wrong with you?” she laughs.

“I’m charming,” I say. My voice is too high. My hands are too shaky.

She bumps my shoulder. I feel it everywhere.

I want to say: You’re not just my best friend. You’re the reason I get nervous putting on lip gloss. You’re the reason I stay up at night imagining things I’m too scared to say out loud.