It’s too quiet.

That’s the first thing I notice, days after it happens.

No “Hiya, Podge!” shouted across the corridor like I’m a celebrity and not just an ordinary sixth year. No shyly aggressive compliments about my “arms looking mad good today,” or some bizarre fact about bees or space she’s read that she thought I’d “find cool.” No paper cards shoved into my locker, in bubble letters and glitter pen.

Nothing. Silence.

And the silence? It’s fucking deafening.

It was a stupid thing. A throwaway comment.

Joey had said something like, “Jesus, that girl’s proper obsessed with you, Podge,” and I — in the great tradition of boys too cowardly to own their soft spot — snorted and said, “She’s a bit annoying, isn’t she?”

I didn’t mean it. Not really.

It was that thing you do, where your chest gets tight and your mates are watching and you don’t know how to say: Actually, I love it. I wait for it. She makes my shite days better just by existing. I’m weirdly obsessed with her, actually, but I can’t say that, because what if she hears and stops?

Well. She heard. And she stopped anyway.

It’s been five days.

I’ve seen her once, at lunch. Sitting with her friends, chin tucked down and laughter all quiet and folded up.

She saw me.

She didn’t wave.

She didn’t smile.

And I think I’ve swallowed my fucking heart.

I try to fix it the only way I know how: terribly.

Day six, I leave a sticky note on her locker. You were right, that space fact was class. Sorry I was a dickhead. – Podge

No reply.

Day seven, I purposely stand in her path, hoping she’ll have to talk to me.

She pivots like a ballerina mid-step and disappears into the stairwell.

Day eight, I follow her into the library, lean over the back of the chair she’s in and say (way too loud), “You’re not annoying. You’re funny. And your notes made my days. You made my days.”

She blinks at me. Big eyes. Shocked. Quiet.

“You don’t have to like me back,” I say quickly. “But I was a dick, and I think you should know you’re not just someone I notice—you’re someone I wait for.”

Silence.

Then, slow as anything, she holds up a note from her open journal and flips it toward me.

In her bubble writing: About time, Kelly.

And under that: Next time, I want a glitter pen apology.

I grin. God, I’ve missed that chaos.

“Anything you want,” I say, hand over heart like an oath. “Even sparkles.”

She smirks.

And the silence finally breaks.