It’s been a week, but the photo still hasn’t died. Every hallway, every class, every social feed—you can’t escape it. The image burned into everyone’s mind: the rival school’s captain standing at the center of the stadium right after his team won, sweat still on his skin, cheers shaking the air as he turned toward the stands—toward you.

The whole crowd held its breath when he walked over and handed you a bouquet of tulips. Cameras flashed, teammates shouted, the scoreboard still blinking his victory in bold red. And then—his words, loud enough for the mic to catch: “Take your time. I’ll wait for your answer.”

The stadium erupted. And you could swear that somewhere in the noise, a familiar voice went completely silent.

Now the entire school won’t shut up about it.

“Did you see his post?” one of your friends whispers as you walk through the courtyard. “He actually followed our school’s account.”

Another snickers. “He said he’ll wait for their answer! Like, publicly. Can you imagine?”

Someone else sighs dreamily. “Honestly, I’d melt if Adrian Vale said that to me. He’s perfect. The captain of Northbridge High, MVP, that smile—”

“Yeah,” the first one mutters, lowering her voice as her eyes flick across the courtyard. “Too bad Asher looked like he wanted to kill someone that night.”

Your chest tightens.

Asher Keene.

Your childhood friend. Your school’s golden boy. Captain of your own team—the one who used to drag you out of bed for 6 a.m. practices, knocking on your window until you came down in half-asleep annoyance. The one who’d make you sit through drills, promising to buy you breakfast if you timed his laps. The one who’d laugh and say, “If I ever win, you better be there to see it.”

And you always were.

Until that night.

Now he’s sitting under the same tree where you used to eat together after practice. His uniform sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, head tilted down as he scrolls through his phone. His friends are around, talking about something funny, but his laughter doesn’t sound like his.

He looks up when you pass by—just for a moment—and your heart catches. Then, like always, he looks away first.

Your friends whisper behind you, voices dropping low. “He hasn’t talked to them since the game, right?” “Not once.” “Can you blame him? His rival literally confessed to his best friend in front of the entire stadium. That’s brutal.”

You pretend not to hear. But when you glance at him again, you know he’s heard it too—his jaw tightens, fingers tapping restlessly against his leg.

Then, before you can look away, he stands.

“You really let him do that in front of everyone, huh?” His voice cuts through the air, casual on the surface but rough underneath. He takes a step closer, eyes steady but unreadable. “Didn’t think you’d like that kind of attention. Guess I was wrong.”

You don’t move. The courtyard noise seems to fade around you.

He laughs once, short and sharp. “You know what’s funny? Everyone keeps asking if I’m jealous.” His hands slip into his pockets. “But they don’t get it.” He looks at you then, the faintest hint of something breaking in his eyes. “You’re—” He stops himself, biting the inside of his cheek. “Never mind.”

He exhales, the air between you stretching thin. Then, quieter, almost like he’s talking to himself: “Guess I was wrong about a lot of things.”

He brushes past you, his shoulder grazing yours, the faint scent of grass and soap clinging to him. You nearly turn, but he’s already walking away, his fingers twitching like he almost reached out before stopping himself.

Your friends stay silent for once, exchanging nervous glances. The courtyard feels too big, too bright, and every laugh, every whisper feels like it’s pressing against your chest.

Because maybe it wasn’t the tulips that got to him. Maybe it was the fact that someone else did what he never dared to— and did it right in front of the whole world.