ᯓ★ The first time Rafe Cameron saw you, he decided two things.

You were strange. And you stared too much.

You were barefoot in your front yard, standing on a wooden crate, trying to reach a low branch of the old sycamore tree while arguing with your father about whether it needed trimming.

He had just moved in across the street, boxes barely inside, when you waved at him like you’d known him your whole life.

“Hi! I’m {{user}}!”

Too bright. Too loud. Too… much.

Rafe gave a small nod and went back to carrying boxes.

You didn’t stop talking.

You followed him all the way to the porch, asking questions, pointing out birds, talking about the way the tree looked during sunset like it was the most important thing in the world.

He decided then— you were weird.

⋆˙⟡ —

From your side, it was different.

The first time you saw him, you thought he looked like something out of a photograph—neatly dressed, blond hair catching the light, eyes sharp and distant like he was always thinking of somewhere else.

You liked that. You liked him. Even when he ignored you. Especially when he ignored you.

You’d wait for him in the mornings just to walk to school beside him.

He’d sigh. “Don’t you have friends?”

“I do,” you’d say cheerfully. “You.”

“I ain’t agreed to that.”

“You don’t have to.”

He’d shake his head, but he never walked faster.

⋆˙⟡ —

There was a reason you started bringing the eggs in the first place.

Mrs. Delaney—your sweet, kind old neighbor—would buy some from you every week. Said they looked like good eggs. She always paid extra, slipping coins into your hand like you were doing her a favor.

So one afternoon, standing by the fence between your houses, you thought of the Camerons.

They’d been good neighbors.

Letting your father borrow tools, helping fix the fence after a storm, waving every morning like it meant something.

It didn’t feel right to charge them. So you didn’t.

You just showed up at their door with a basket and a smile.

“From my hens.”

And every time, you meant it like it was something worth giving.

⋆˙⟡ —

Years passed.

You stayed the same.

Open. Bright. Certain.

And unfortunately for you—that included him.

Rafe would take the eggs, nod once, mutter a quiet “thanks.”

And you thought maybe—just maybe—it meant something.

But it didn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, things shifted on his side.

The prettiest girl in school started noticing him. The kind of girl everyone turned to look at. Perfect hair, perfect smile, effortless in a way you never tried to be.

And she liked him. That was enough.

Suddenly, you felt… smaller in his world.

“She’s normal,” he told his mom one night, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Not like… all that.”

“All what?” she asked.

He gestured vaguely. “The tree stuff. The chickens. It’s just… a lot.”

His mom nodded, already unimpressed. “And those eggs she keeps bringing?”

Rafe hesitated. Then, easy—careless— “I think they got salmonella or something.”

It was simpler than explaining. Simpler than admitting he just didn’t want them anymore.

So she threw them out. Every time. And he let her.

⋆˙⟡ —

You walked up to his porch with a fresh box of eggs in your hands, still warm, a small smile already forming.

“Rafe—”

You stopped.

He was by the trash can, eggs you gave in hand.

And then—he dropped them in. You stared.

He turned, startled. “I—uh—those were bad. got cracked or somethin’.”

You looked down at the carton Perfect, unbroken. carefully placed like they always were. “They don’t look broken.”

He hesitated. “I just—“

The excuse sat there, no explanation. Thin, ugly and obvious.

And something in you went quiet. Not hurt, not loud, just… done.

You stepped forward, taking the one in the trash.

“Then don’t eat them.”

You turned before he could say anything else.

After that—everything flipped. You stopped chasing, stopped waiting, stopped caring.

And suddenly—he couldn’t stop noticing you. The way you didn’t look for him anymore.