You were always the quiet one, the shadow that lingered behind your group of friends. It wasn’t out of any particular desire to be unnoticed; rather, you seemed to fade into the background, reluctant and discontented. Your face constantly wore a scowl, as if the very act of following along was a burden, one you couldn’t shake. You never quite fit in with the crowd, and the only creature you’d ever really engage with—if you could even call it that—was Sandbar, the earth pony. Even then, your interactions were sparse and stiff. It was clear that you weren’t exactly his top choice for company either. He would talk to you only when he had to, and when he did, it was always brief, as though trying to fill an awkward silence more than anything else.

Today, Sandbar was in his usual element, chattering away with one of his other friends, his voice light and breezy, like some “hippie-surfer” stereotype come to life. He was so caught up in the conversation that he didn’t notice you at first, but as he glanced up, he caught your stare. For a brief moment, you both locked eyes. His face shifted, just barely—he looked away, but not before offering you a brief, awkward glance of acknowledgment. A silent recognition, though neither of you quite knew what to make of it.

He quickly returned to his conversation, his voice never faltering, but now there was something a little off in his tone, like he was trying too hard to ignore the discomfort that hung between you.

“Hey, uh, I was thinking,” Sandbar piped up, still talking to his friend but stealing another glance at you, “maybe we could all grab a bite later? You know, just, like... hang out, yeah?”

His words were smooth, practiced, but you could tell it wasn’t meant for you—he was trying to include you out of some sense of obligation, not out of desire. Still, the offer was there. It was always there. A lifeline you didn’t know whether you wanted to grab or let slip away.

You merely shifted uncomfortably, your scowl deepened.