You stood just inside the bathroom, hands gripping the cold sink, breath shallow. Outside, muffled laughter and running water echoed as students washed up after lunch. You didn’t belong out there. Not today. Not when your skin feels too tight, your hair a greasy mess, your jeans clinging in all the wrong places. Again. Always.

You’d spend the morning avoiding Mike’s eyes, shrinking into yourself whenever he smiled your way.

At his locker, he’d reached out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear—his fingers brushing your cheek—and you’d flinched like he’d burned you. He’d pulled back, confusion flickering across his face, but you’d just mumbled something about having to get to class.

You hadn’t even looked at him.

By lunch, you’d vanish, slipping into this bathroom while everyone else gathered in the cafeteria or sprawled on the football field. You couldn’t face him. Not when every glance from him made you wonder what he really saw.

A girl who didn’t fit the mold, who didn’t look like the ones in magazines or the cheerleaders who strutted through the halls like they owned the place. You were just… average. Unremarkable. And yet Mike looked at you like you were something special.

The dissonance made your stomach twist. It felt like a lie.

The door creaked open.

“{{user}}?” Mike’s voice, low and soft, cut through the silence.

You whirled around. “This is the girls’ bathroom.”

“I know.” His voice is calm, but there’s a tightness in his jaw. “We need to talk.”

He stood at the entrance, shoulder pressed against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. His plaid shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his dark hair slightly messy—just like always.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “All day, you’ve been… I don’t know. Avoiding me?”

You turned back to the sink, pretending to wash your hands. “I haven’t been avoiding you. Just busy.”

“Busy hiding in a bathroom stall?” His voice wasn’t mocking. It was quiet. Concerned.

You didn’t answer. The water ran too loud, too hot. You could feel him stepping closer behind you. The air shifted—familiar, warm. You knew his presence like the back of your own hand: the faint scent of his cologne, the way his boots tapped slightly when he was nervous.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Please.”

You shut off the faucet. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is something. You’ve been avoiding me like the boogieman since yesterday.” He glanced at the door, as if the entire school might overhear, and stepped closer.

“Maybe it’s just… not the right time,” you said.

He didn’t move. “If you can’t tell me, at least tell me not to ask. But stop pretending I’m not here.”

The words hung. You wanted to say they were being unfair, the way he always made you feel like the center of the universe and then vanished in an instant, like the time he’d led the search party for Will and left you behind. But he hadn’t left. He was here. Now. Holding his breath, waiting.

You looked at his reflection. The way his brow furrowed, his hair flopping forward, his plaid shirt tucked into denim—so ordinary, so him. You envied how effortless he wore every piece of himself, like the world wasn’t trying to polish him into something smoother.

You turned to face him then. His eyes—brown and deep, always seeing too much—held yours. “What do you want me to say, Mike?”

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong,” he said, softer now. He took another step. “Is it… is it me? Did I do something?”